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EDITED BY 

FREDERICK H. SYKES, Ph.D. 

TEACHERS COLLEGE, COLUMBIA tJNIVERSITT 



LORD BYRON 

SELECT POEMS 

INCLUDING 

MAZEPPA, THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 
AND CHILDE HAROLD, IV 



The Scribner English Classics. 

Prof. Frederick H. Sykes, Ph.D., Teachers College, Columbia Uni- 
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ADDISON AND STEELE. Selections from The Spectator. 

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OTHERS IN PREPARATION. 



CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 




Lord J^yron 

From an eiiKraviiiji; of a paintinji; by T. Phillips, 1{..\. 



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LORD BYRON 
SELECT POEMS 



INCLUDING 



MAZEPPA, THE PRISONER OF CHILLON, THE FOURTH 
CANTO OF CHILDE HAROLD 



SELECTED AND EDITED WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES 
BT 

WILL D. HOWE, Ph.D. 

PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH, INDIANA UNIVERSITY 



NEW YORK 
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 

1912 



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Copyright, 1912, by 
Charles Scribner's Sons 




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CONTENTS 

INTRODUCTION: 

PAGF. 

I. Byron's Life vii 

II. Byron's Work xiv 

III. Poems with Dates of Publication . . . xvi 

IV. Editions and Books for Reference . . . xvii 

TEXT: 

On Leaving Newstead Abbey 3 

On a Distant View of the Village and School of 

Harrow on the Hill 5 

Lachin y Gair 7 

The Prayer of Nature 9 

Stanzas Composed During a Thunder Storm . . 12 

Address, Spoken at the Opening of Drury-Lane 

Theatre 15 

When We Two Parted 18 

Hebrew Melodies: 

She Walks in Beauty 20 

The Harp the Monarch Minstrel Swept ... 21 

If that High World 22 

The Wild Gazelle 22 

Oh! Weep for Those 23 

On Jordan's Banks 24 

Jephtha's Daughter 25 

Oh! Snatched Away in Beauty's Bloom ... 26 

My Soul is Dark 26 

I Saw Thee Weep 27 

Thy Days are Done 28 

V 



vi CONTENTS 

Hebrew Melodies — {Continued) 

PAGE 

Song of Saul Before His Last Battle ... 29 

Saul 29 

"All is Vanity, saith the Preacher" ... 31 

When Coldness Wraps this Suffering Clay 32 

Vision of Belshazzar 33 

Sun of the Sleepless 35 

Were My Bosom as False as Thou Deem'st it 

TO Be 36 

Herod's Lament for Mariamne 36 

On the Day of the Destruction of Jerusalem 

BY Titus 37 

By the Rivers of Babylon We Sat Down and 

Wept 38 

By the Waters of Babylon 39 

The Destruction of Sennacherib .... 40 

A Spirit Passed Before Me 41 

Prometheus 44 

To Thomas Moore 46 

On This Day I Complete My Thirty-sixth Year . 47 

Childe Harold, Canto IV 49 

The Prisoner of Chillon 112 

Mazeppa 126 

Don Juan ("The Shipwreck," Canto II) .... 155 

Don Juan ("The Isles of Greece," Canto III) . 180 

NOTES 185 

INDEX TO NOTES 221 



INTRODUCTION 

I.— BYRON'S LIFE 

LORD BYRON was born in London, January 22, 1788. His 
-^ father was Captain Byron, the scion of an ancient family 
which had come to England in the eleventh century with William 
the Conqueror. His mother was Catherine Gordon, whose 
name he took, owing to the will of a maternal ancestor. Until 
the time of his maturity he was always called George Gordon. 

The boy was born with a club-foot, which throughout his life 
caused him serious pain and made him very sensitive. Captam 
Byron soon spent most of his wife's fortune and then disap- 
peared. Thereupon, the mother moved with her child to Aber- 
deen, Scotland. 

When the son was five years old, he was sent to a private 
school in Aberdeen where he remained for a year. Then for a 
time he was placed in charge of a tutor, a clergyman, for whom 
Byron always kept an enthusiastic admiration. Later he went 
to school at Harrow. 

At Harrow, Byron became a leader among the boys. Pas- 
sionately fond of out-of-door sports, especially cricket and swim- 
ming, he represented his school in a cricket match with Eton and 
acquired a skill in swimming which he retained throughout life. 
He was not industrious in his studies, but he read extensively, 
became proficient in speaking and in writing verse, and formed 
many lasting friendships. 

By the death of his great-uncle. Lord Byron of Newstead 
Abbey, he inherited the estates and the title by which to-day he 
is commonly known. 

In 1805, at the age of seventeen, Byron went from Harrow to 
Trinity College, Cambridge. In his Childish Recollections he 
has left us an illuminating account of his feelings in entering 



viil BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

upon his University work. "When I first went up to College, 
it was a new and heavy-hearted scene to me: firstly, I so much 
disliked leaving Harrow, that though it was time (I being seven- 
teen) it broke my very rest for the last quarter with counting the 
days that remained. I always hated Harrow till the last year 
and a half, but then I liked it. Secondly, I wished to go to 
Oxford and not to Cambridge. Thirdly, I was so completely 
alone in this new world, that it half broke my spirits. My 
companions were not unsocial, but on the contrary lively, hos- 
pitable, of rank and fortune, and gay beyond my gaiety. I 
mingled with and dined and supped with them; but I know 
not how, it was one of the deadliest and heaviest feelings of my 
life to feel that I was no longer a boy." 

At Cambridge, Byron led a reckless life, became distinguished 
for his riding, swimming, shooting, and boxing, surrounded him- 
self with strange animals as his pets, dressed with oriental mag- 
nificence, and often talked all night with small groups of brilliant 
friends. He had already acquired an intense passion for the 
Old Testament and for the poetry of Pope, and now was be- 
ginning to write fluently after the manner of that famous eigh- 
teenth century poet. 

In November, 1806, he printed for private circulation the 
first issue of his juvenile poems. Favorable criticism of these 
early verses prompted him to publish the volume called Hours 
of Idleness (1807). 

A life of ease and repose was, however, not for this young 
man, full of energy and passion. He soon tired of the aca- 
demic life, and in 1808 he left Cambridge without his degree, 
and began a career unique in the lives of literary men for its 
variety, its passionate melancholy, and its brilliant and lasting 
achievement. 

Passing from London to Newstead, from Brighton to Cam- 
bridge, he spent months of aimless energy, till he was stung to 
the quick by the criticism in The Edinburgh Review directed 
against his volume of poems. Unable to repress his pride and 
anger, he wrote in haste and published his brilliant satire, Eng- 
lish Bards and Scotch Reviewers. This vivid and malicious bit 
of verse, after the manner of the literary satire of Dryden and 



INTRODUCTION ix 

Pope, showed extraordinary acumen and power of phrase-mak- 
ing which make the lines easy to be remembered. The poem 
lacked, however, real critical distinction. 

The work was published anonymously in March, 1809, and 
was followed by a second edition under his name in October of 
the same year. A third and a fourth edition appeared within the 
next two years. Then he revised the whole for a fifth edition, 
whereupon he decided to suppress the work and destroyed all 
the copies which could be found. For the second edition he 
wrote a preface which began as follows: 

" All my friends, learned and unlearned, have urged me not 
to publish this satire with my name. If I were to be 'turned 
from the career of my humor by quibbles quick and paper 
bullets of the brain,' I should have complied with their coun- 
sel. But I am not to be terrified by abuse, or bullied by re- 
viewers, with or without arms. I can safely say that I have 
attacked none personally, who did not commence the attack." 
It should be added that within three years, with most of these 
men, Moore, Scott, Southey, Wordsworth, Coleridge, he had 
acquired a relationship of friendliness, even intimacy. The 
bold and rash invective against the chief poets and critics of the 
day was a work of impulse rather than of reflection and was re- 
gretted by Byron later in life when he came to know the men 
whom he had assailed. 

A few days before this satire appeared, Byron, having become 
of age, presented himself to the House of Lords with the inten- 
tion of taking his seat. Though he thought of entering upon a 
life of politics, he could not withstand the craving for adventure, 
and left Parliament without sharing in its work. In June he 
left London with his friend Hobhouse and for two years travelled 
on the Continent, through Portugal and Spain, along the Med- 
iterranean, into Greece and the Levant. 

Everywhere he did something heroic; everywhere he left an 
impression upon the people he met that here was one of the 
heroes of old. In south-west Spain he rode horseback for four 
hundred miles at an average rate of seventy miles in the twenty- 
four hours; he saw the bull-fights at Cadiz, and described them 
most enthusiastically; he quarrelled almost to the point of a 



X BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

duel with an officer at Malta; he was entertained at Janina by 
a famous Albanian bandit; he lost his way in a terrific thun- 
derstorm; he visited bands of robbers, caves, ruins of ancient 
temples, and not least of all he swam the Dardanelles from Ses- 
tos to Abydos. The pages of extravagant mediaeval romance 
are not more glowing than the record of Byron's adventures 
abroad. He returned to England in July, 1811. He came back 
full of romantic ideas which were to take form in all his poems 
written in the rest of his life. 

Before he reached Newstead Abbey, his mother died. The 
relationship between the mother and son had, perhaps, never 
been ideal, and yet he wrote with sincerity to a friend, " I now 
feel the truth of Mrs. Gray's observation, that we can only have 
one mother. Peace be with her! " The death of the only parent 
that Byron knew and of several of his intimate friends intensified 
his loneliness and accentuated the melancholy which was born 
with him. 

Byron now turned to the writing of Childe Harold. The first 
two cantos appeared February 29, 1812. This was a great day 
for Byron and for England. The poet awoke to find himself 
famous, his country to be introduced to a Europe that knew 
of all the English poets only Shakespeare, and Shakespeare only 
in translation. It is difficult for us to realize to ourselves the 
literary isolation of England of a hundred years ago. Even 
more difficult is it to imagine the social and political England 
and Europe of that time. America and France, coming out 
of revolutions so different in spirit and in result, had set the 
world thinking of a new political liberty. Germany had rent 
the fetters of intellectual bondage and had produced a new 
philosophy. England had entered upon a splendid era of im- 
aginative idealism where man and nature were to find a new 
place. Not since the spacious times of Queen Elizabeth were 
there such hope and enthusiasm. And now after the nineteenth 
century has closed, we can say that the hope and enthusiasm 
were justified. 

Into this great epoch came Byron with Childe Harold. For 
it the character of the man and his work seemed peculiarly 
adapted. He was a young man of striking appearance, of noble 



INTRODUCTION xi 

family, inheriting one of the fine estates of feudal England. His 
youth, passion, brilliant talk, physical prowess, skill at happy 
phrase-making, melancholy, rakish, almost vulgar humor, his 
verses, easy but not over polished, his rashness in holding the 
masters up to ridicule, his romantic adventures abroad — these 
made Byron the man of the hour. 

And the poem! That presented in rapid narrative, which 
could be understood by everybody, an ideal wanderer in an age 
when the desire to travel was well-nigh as strong as in the days 
of the great discoveries. It transported an eager people into 
foreign lands and showed them there the monuments of the great 
and silent past. It made the ears tingle with eloquent and imag- 
inative descriptions of foreign scenery. It rang with passionate 
appeal for personal liberty and sounded, as it were, a call to 
arms for the battle against convention and oppressive monarchy. 

The poem ran through seven editions in four weeks. Its 
author was acclaimed everywhere. He spoke in Parliament 
several times, always espousing the Liberal side as opposed to 
the Conservative. He met the distinguished people of his day, 
poets, essayists, statesmen, men of science. Three years he 
spent in social dissipation and feverish work and seemed to 
have attained a popularity which could not suffer eclipse. 

Then the tide turned. In January, 1815, Byron married 
Miss Isabella Milbanke. He had been excessively admired and 
sought after. Every one felt the charm of his presence. Walter 
Scott wrote, "His countenance is a thing to dream of." Besides, 
his sudden rise into w^orld-wide fame and all the adventures as- 
sociated with his name combined to fascinate all who knew him. 
It is difficult to conceive how any human being could withstand 
such universal flattery; it was impossible for such popularity 
to continue. 

Within a year after the marriage. Lady Byron, taking with 
her their infant daughter, Augusta Ada, left her husband and 
went home to her parents. Byron supposed it was merely a short 
visit and was astounded to receive a letter from her father 
saying that she would not and should not return. For us it is 
futile to inquire into the causes of the separation. With no 
evidence in behalf of Byron or against him, society turned from 



xii BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

its hero and espoused the cause of Lady Byron. Scandal-mon- 
gers, envious verse-makers, the conventional and the orthodox, 
hastened to add fuel to the blaze. So severe was the persecu- 
tion that the poet dared not go to the theatre nor to Parlia- 
ment. Even his presence on the street was the signal for a mob. 
It was another and a striking example of the fickleness of pop- 
ularity. 

Upon a man so sensitive as Byron naturally was, the effect 
must have been almost unendurable. He had always maintained 
that he had been born under an unlucky star. Now he knew. 
The state of popular feeling prompted him to an immediate de- 
cision. In great haste he arranged his affairs and left England, 
April 25, 1816, never to return alive to his native country. 

From 1812 to 1816 Byron worked on his Oriental Tales and 
published The Giaour, The Bride of Abydos, The Corsair, Lara, 
The Siege of Corinth. The public, which had had its taste for 
romantic adventure formed by Scott, now turned eagerly to 
these thrilling melodramas in verse. The love story of Scott 
with its idealized heroine was supplanted by the oriental narra- 
tive of Byron abounding in passionate excitement. A combat 
was no longer the gentlemanly joust of two mediaeval knights 
but a real fight where bullets flew and swords slashed. Few 
readers turned away from the pages of Byron's tales with the 
feeling that the poet had not fully satisfied their craving for 
blood. The man Byron they might despise, but they devoured 
his poetry. 

Byron left England in the spring of 1816. From London he 
went to Waterloo, thence up the Rhine to Switzerland, where 
he met, first, the German philosopher, Schlegel, and then Shel- 
ley and the great French woman of the time, Madame de Stael. 
This association stimulated him greatly, and roused him from 
his gloom and depression. Especially Shelley with his fine 
appreciation of the sights about him refined Byron's sensitive- 
ness to the glory of lake and mountain. In Switzerland Byron 
wrote The Prisoner of Chillon, the third canto of Childe Harold, 
and the drama Manfred. 

In the autumn Byron visited several of the Italian cities, 
among them Milan and Verona, and finally settled in Venice. 



INTRODUCTION xiii 

Here for two years he plunged into wild dissipation, hounded 
by malicious scandals of English society. His health began to 
break, his amiability yieldod to irritability, his melancholy to 
moroseness. With almost superhuman fortitude he kept at 
work and wrote the fourth canto of Childe Harold, Beppo, and 
the first four cantos of Don Juan, and other poems. 

At intervals, he travelled about in Italy, remaining for a 
time at Ravenna, Pisa, and Leghorn, meeting distinguished 
people and growing more and more interested in Italian poli- 
tics. Over the failure of the Revolutionary party in Italy Byron 
was sorely disappointed. His spirit seemed crushed, but he did 
not give way to despair. "If I live ten years longer," he wrote 
in 1822, "you will see that it is not all over with me. I don't 
mean in literature, for that is nothing, and I do not think it 
was my vocation, but I shall do something." The struggle of 
the Greeks for freedom offered him his opportunity. He re- 
solved to place his personal fortune and his life at the disposal 
of the Greek revolutionaries. After great preparations had been 
made and a ship equipped, on the morning of July 14, 1823, 
he started for Greece. He was accompanied by three friends 
and eight servants, besides the crew. The ship carried ammu- 
nition and a large sum of money. He narrowly escaped capture 
by the Turks, and was received by the Greeks with wonderful 
enthusiasm. 

This was to be the last year of his life, and in that year he was 
not to know rest. Eager to achieve success, he was harassed 
by his enemies, cheated by the Greeks, who thought his re- 
sources inexhaustible. Such nervous turmoil would soon break 
even the strongest of men. Weakened physically, he became 
an easy subject to rheumatic fever. He had not the strength 
to overcome the attack, and died on April 19, 1824, at Misso- 
longhi. 

From the account of his life by his friend, Thomas Moore, 
we quote a passage describing the funeral: "In the midst of 
his own brigade, of the troops of the government, and of the 
whole population, on the shoulders of the officers of his corps, 
relieved occasionally by other Greeks, the most precious por- 
tion of his honored remains were carried to the Church where 



xiv BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

He the bodies of Marco Bozzarls and of General Mormanna. 
There we laid them down: the coffin a rude, ill-constructed 
chest of wood; a black mantle served for a pall; and over it we 
placed a helmet and a sword and a crown of laurel. But no 
funeral pomp could have left the impression, nor spoken the 
feelings of the simple ceremony. The wretchedness and desola- 
tion of the place itself; the wild and half-civilized warriors 
around us; their deep-felt, unaffected grief, the fond recollec- 
tions, the disappointed hopes, the disappointments and pre- 
sentiments which might be read on every countenance, all 
contributed to form a scene more moving, more truly affecting 
than perhaps was ever before witnessed round the grave of a 
great man." 

Three months afterward the body was carried to England 
and buried in the village church of Hucknall, near Newstead. 
So were closed the chapters of the life of one of the most re- 
markable men of all time. 

IL— BYROxN'S WORK 

That Byron was one of the literary heroes of the first half 
of the nineteenth century cannot be denied; equally futile would 
it be to deny that in the second half of the century his popularity 
as rapidly declined. It is perhaps worth while to inquire briefly 
into the causes of that popularity and its decline. 

The nineteenth century began with many vague hopes. 
Politically and socially, Europe had been stirred in the closing 
years of the eighteenth century with ideas which promised much 
for the value of human life. Men were beginning to reconsider 
what they were and the position and value of each individual in 
the society in which he lived. It was a time of hope, of dreams, 
of romance. To such a time Byron appealed. Men recognized in 
him a man like themselves, of like feelings and passions. People 
demanded a story-teller and Byron did not fail them. Besides, 
better than the eighteenth century novelists and romancers, even 
better than his contemporary, Scott, with his splendid nar- 
ratives of the mediaeval ages, Byron wrote with a realism that 
was most satisfying. He took the stories from the far East and 



INTRODUCTION xv 

recounted them with enthusiastic vividness, always keeping in 
the foreground a splendid ideal hero. Rome and Greece, with 
something of the glamor attaching to them of the centuries of 
the Renaissance, lay in the path of that idealistic hero. More- 
over, that hero had the virtues of the great men of old, the love 
of adventure, an abounding physical strength and courage and 
absolute individual liberty. As Mr. Morley has said, " Byron's 
poetry was the glorification of the revolutionary commonplace." 

Above all this, every one saw in that ideal hero the man 
Byron. The poet himself had travelled widely, he had dreamed 
of the past, he had cherished hopes of a new society based on a 
new liberty, and finally he had given his fortune and his life to 
the cause of freedom. He had spoken with frank sincerity; he 
had written with imaginative realism, and finally he had acted 
with unselfish consistency. In a word, he was human, and not 
one of the poets of his day — the transcendental Wordsworth, the 
mystic Coleridge, the sensuous Keats, the ethereal Shelley — 
not one of these was in the same degree human. 

Time is the sure judge of lasting fame. Perhaps no phase 
of literary history is so interesting and so pathetic as the reverses 
which come to the fame of the once popular writer. The litera- 
ture of any country abounds in such names. It is possible to in- 
dicate some of the causes that have led to the decline of the 
popularity of Byron's poetry. 

In the first place, he was so completely a representative of his 
own revolutionary era. Revolutions are not lasting. They are 
the transition periods. The popular hero, impelled by the ideas 
of such troublous times, cannot long retain his prestige; Byron 
was no exception. He did not see deeply into social and eco- 
nomic conditions. He did not know society and he did not 
know himself. He had not the modern conception of freedom 
and democracy, and he had not the scientific spirit. In other 
words, he failed to see the order in the world, he did not see the 
laws by which the world moves and which cannot be changed 
by any declamatory idealist. It is this lack which makes 
Byron so different from the sane and virile writers of the Vic- 
torian Era. 

Greatest of all his limitations, he was not a great artist. He 



xvi BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

wrote with impressive vividness and with extraordinary de- 
scriptive powers; he wrote easily in verse, certainly too easily, 
and yet his work lacks the finish and distinction which we find 
in the highest art. His words are not the final words, they do 
not have suggestion or connotation. One searches in vain for 
passages to which one might apply the dictum of Matthew Ar- 
nold — " the criticism of life" — lines which tell something about 
life that has always been and always will be true of it. 

If the judgment of time withholds from Lord Byron a place 
among the great immortals, yet he will always be read, and he 
deserves to be. He was not a poet of the decadence, his poetry 
is the poetry of strength. Ho has certainly written some of our 
best stories in verse. 'I'he person who has never felt the swing 
of his narrative verse, who has never been lost in admiration of 
his interesting personality, who has never followed him on 
his wanderings into the romantic past — that person will be only 
less poor than he who has not read Scott or Dickens. ' 

HI.— POEMS WITH DATES OF PUBLICATION 

1807. Hours of Idleness. 

1809. English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. 

1812. Childe Harold (Cantos I and II). 
The Curse of Minerva. 

1813. The Giaour. 

The Bride of Ahydos. 
i814. The Corsair. 
Lara. 

1815. Hebrew Melodies. U 

1816. The Siege of Corinth. 
Parisina. 

The Prisoner of Chillon and Other Poems. 
Childe Harold (Canto III). 

1817. Manfred. 

1818. ChUde Harold (Canto IV). 

1819. Don Juan (Cantos I and II). 
Mazep'pa. 

Ode on Venice. 



INTRODUCTION xvii 



1821. Cain. 
Marino Faliero. 
The Two Foscari. 
Sardanapalus. 

Dan, Juan (Cantos III, IV, V). 

1822. Vision of Judgment. 

1823. Werner. 
The Island. 
Heaven and Earth. 

Don Juan (Cantos VI to XIV). 

1824. The Deformed Transformed. 
Don Juan (Cantos XV, XVI). 



IV.— EDITIONS AND BOOKS FOR REFERENCE 

The standard edition by R. E. Prothero and E. H. Coleridge 

in 13 volumes (1898-1903). 
Single volume editions, Globe (Macmillan); Cambridge 

(Houghton, Mifflin); Oxford (Clarendon Press); E. H. 

Coleridge (Scribners). 
Biographies by Thomas Moore, John Niehol, Roden Noel. 
Critical essays by T. B. Macaulay, Matthew Arnold, Edward 

Dowden, A. C. Swinburne, R. H. Hutton, John Morley, G. 

K. Chesterton, and many others. 
A Bibliography is appended to the Life of Lord Byron, by the 

Hon. Roden Noel, in the "Great Writers" series (Walter 

Scott). 



BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 



BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 



ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY 



" Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days? Thou 
lookest from thy tower to-day; yet a few years, and the blast 
of the desert comes, it howls in thy empty court." — Ossian. 



Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds 
whistle : 
Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay; 
In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle 
Have choked up the rose which late bloomed in the 
way. 

Of the mail-covered Barons, who proudly to battle 5 

Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, 

The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast rattle. 
Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. 

No more doth old Robert, with heart-stringing numbers. 
Raise a flame in the breast of the war-laurelled 

wreath; lO 

Near Askalon's towers John of Horistan slumbers. 
Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death. 

Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of Cressy; 
For the safety of Edward and England they fell : 

3 



4 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

My fathers! the tears of your country redress ye; 15 

How you fought, how you died, still her annals can 
tell. 

On Marston, with Rupert, 'gainst traitors contending. 
Four brothers enriched with their blood the bleak 
field; 

For the rights of a monarch their country defending. 

Till death their attachment to royalty sealed. 20 

Shades of heroes, farewell; your descendant, departing 
From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu! 

Abroad or at home, your remembrance imparting 
New courage, he'll think upon glory and you. 

Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 25 

'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret; 

Far distant he goes with the same emulation, 
The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. 

That fame and that memory still will he cherish, 

He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown; 30 

Like you will he live, or like you will he perish; 
When decayed, may he mingle his dust with your 
own. 



ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE 

VILLAGE AND SCHOOL OF 

HARROW-ON-THE-HILL 

"Oh! mihi praeteritos referat si Jupiter annos." 

— Vergil. 

Ye scenes of my childhood, whose loved recollection 
Embitters the present, compared with the past; 

Where science first dawned on the powers of reflection, 
And friendships were formed, too romantic to last: 

Where fancy yet joys to trace the resemblance 5 

Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied; 

How welcome to me your ne'er-fading remembrance. 
Which rests in the bosom, though hope is denied! 

Again I revisit the hills where w^e sported. 

The streams where w^e swam, and the fields where 

we fought: lo 

The school where, loud w^arned by the bell, we resorted, 
To pore o'er the precepts by pedagogues taught. 

Again I behold where for hours I have pondered. 
As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone I lay; 

Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wandered, i5 
To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting ray. 

I once more view" the room, with spectators surrounded. 
Where, as Zanga, I trod on Alonzo o'erthrown; 

5 



G BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

While, to swell my young pride, such applauses resounded, 
I fancied that Mossop himself was outshone. 20 

Or, as Lear, I poured forth the deep imprecation. 
By my daughters of kingdom and reason deprived; 

Till fired by loud plaudits and self-adulation, 
I regarded myself as a Garrick revived. 

Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you! 25 

Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast; 

Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you: 
Your pleasures may still be in fancy possessed. 

To Ida full oft may remembrance restore me. 

While fate shall the shades of the future unroll! 30 

Since darkness o'ershadows the prospect before me. 
More dear is the beam of the past to my soul. 

But if, through the course of the years which await me. 
Some new scene of pleasure should open to view, 

I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate me, 35 
"Oh! such were the days which my infancy knew." 



LACHIN Y GAIR 

Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses! 

In you let the minions of luxury rove; 
Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes, 

Though still they are sacred to freedom and love: 
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, 5 

Round their white summits though elements war; 
Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing foun- 
tains, 

I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr. 

Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wandered; 

My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid; lO 

On chieftains long perished my memory pondered. 

As daily I strode through the pine-covered glade; 
I sought not my home till the day's dying glory 

Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star: 
For fancy was cheered by traditional story, 15 

Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. 

"Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices 

Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?" 
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices. 

And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland vale. 20 
Round Loch na Garr while the stormy mist gathers. 

Winter presides in his cold icy car: 
Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers; 

They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr. 

7 



8 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

"Ill-starred, though brave, did no visions foreboding 25 

Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?" 
Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden, 

Victory crowned not your fall with applause: 
Still were you happy in death's earthly slumber, 

You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar; 30 

The pibroch resounds to the piper's loud number, 

Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr. 

Years have rolled on, Loch na Garr, since I left you. 

Years must elapse ere I tread you again: 
Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you, 35 

Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain. 
England! thy beauties are tame and domestic. 

To one who has roved o'er the mountains afar; 
Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic! 

The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr! 40 



THE PRAYER OF NATURE 

Father of Light! great God of Heaven! 

Ilear'st Thou the accents of despair? 
Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven ? 

Can vice atone for crimes by prayer? 

Father of Light, on Thee I call ! 5 

Thou seest my soul is dark within; 
Thou who canst mark the sparrow's fall. 

Avert from me the death of sin. 

No shrine I seek, to sects unknown; 

Oh, point to me the path of truth! lo 

Thy dread omnipotence I own; 

Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth. 

Let bigots rear a gloomy fane. 

Let superstition hail the pile. 
Let priests, to spread their sable reign, 15 

With tales of mystic rites beguile. 

Shall man confine his Maker's sway 
To Gothic domes of mouldering stone? 

Thy temple is the face of day; 

Earth, ocean, heaven. Thy boundless throne. 20 

Shall man condemn his race to hell, 
Unless they bend in pompous form? 
9 



10 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

Tell us that all, for one who fell, 
Must perish in the mingling storm ? 

Shall each pretend to reach the skies, 25 

Yet doom his brother to expire. 
Whose soul a different hope supplies. 

Or doctrines less severe inspire? 

Shall these, by creeds they can't expound. 

Prepare a fancied bliss or woe? 30 

Shall reptiles, groveling on the ground, 
Their great Creator's purpose know ? 

Shall those who live for self alone. 
Whose years float on in daily crime — 

Shall they by faith for guilt atone, 35 

And live beyond the bounds of Time ? 

Father! no prophet's laws I seek, — 
Thy laws in Nature's works appear; 

I own myself corrupt and weak. 

Yet will I pray, for Thou wilt hear! 40 

Thou, who canst guide the wandering star 
Through trackless realms of ether's space; 

Who calm'st the elemental war. 

Whose hand from pole to pole I trace: — 

Thou, who in wisdom placed me here, 45 

Who, when Thou wilt, canst take me hence, 

Ah! whilst I tread this earthly sphere, 
Extend to me Thy wide defence. 



THE PRAYER OF NATURE 11 

To Thee, my God, to Thee I call I 

Whatever weal or woe betide, 60 

By Thy command I rise or fall, 

In Thy protection I confide. 

If, when this dust to dust's restored, 

My soul shall float on airy wing, 
How shall Thy glorious name adored 65 

Inspire her feeble voice to sing! 

But, if this fleeting spirit share 

With clay the grave's eternal bed. 
While life yet throbs I raise my prayer, 

Though doomed no more to quit the dead. 60 

To Thee I breathe my humble strain. 

Grateful for all Thy mercies past, 
And hope, my God, to Thee again 

This erring life may fly at last. 



STANZAS 



Composed during a thunder-storm, and while bewildered near 
Mount Pindus in Albania. 



Chill and mirk is the nightly blast. 

Where Pindus' mountains rise, 
And angry clouds are pouring fast 

The vengeance of the skies. 

Our guides are gone, our hope is lost, 5 

And lightnings, as they play, 
But show where rocks our path have crossed. 

Or gild the torrent's spray. 

Is yon a cot I saw, though low? 

When lightning broke the gloom — lO 

How welcome were its shade! — ah, no I 

'Tis but a Turkish tomb. 

Through sounds of foaming waterfalls, 

I hear a voice exclaim — 
My way-worn countryman, who calls 15 

On distant England's name. 

A shot is fired — by foe or friend ? 

Another — 'tis to tell 
The mountain-peasants to descend 

And lead us where they dwell. 20 

12 



STANZAS 1:3 

Oh ! who in such a night will dare 

To tempt the wilderness? 
And who 'mid thunder-peals can hear 

Our signal of distress ? 

And who that heard our shouts would rise 25 

To try the dubious road? 
Nor rather deem from nightly cries 

That outlaws were abroad? 

Clouds burst, skies flash, — oh, dreadful hour! 

More fiercely pours the storm! so 

Yet here one thought has still the power 

To keep my bosom warm. 

While wandering through each broken path. 

O'er brake and craggy brow; 
While elements exhaust their wrath, 35 

Sweet Florence, where art thou? 

Not on the sea, not on the sea. 

Thy bark hath long been gone: 
Oh, may the storm that pours on me, 

Bow down my head alone! 40 

Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc, 

When last I pressed thy lip; 
And long ere now, with foaming shock. 

Impelled thy gallant ship. 

Now thou art safe; nay, long ere now 45 

Hast trod the shore of Spain; 



14 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

'Twere hard if aught so fair as thou 
Should linger on the main. 

And since I now remember thee 

In darkness and in dread, 50 

As in those hours of revelry 

Which mirth and music sped; 

Do thou, amid the fair white walls, 

If Cadiz yet be free, 
At times from out her latticed halls 55 

Look o'er the dark blue sea; 

Then think upon Calypso's isles, 

Endeared by days gone by; 
To others gives a thousand smiles, 

To me a single sigh. 60 

And when the admiring circle mark 

The paleness of thy face, 
A half-formed tear, a transient spark 

Of melancholy grace. 

Again thou'lt smile, and blushing shun 65 

Some coxcomb's raillery; 
Nor own for once thou thought'st of one 

Who ever thinks on thee. 

Though smile and sigh alike are vain. 

When severed hearts repine, 70 

My spirit flies o'er mount and main, 
And mourns in search of thine. 



ADDRESS, SPOKEN AT THE 

OPENING OF DRURY-LANE 

THEATRE 

Saturday, October 10, 1812. 

In one dread night our city saw, and sighed. 

Bowed to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride; 

In one short hour beheld the blazing fane, 

Apollo sink, and Shakespeare cease to reign. 

Ye who beheld (oh! sight admired and mourned, 5 

Whose radiance mocked the ruin it adorned!) 

Through clouds of fire the massive fragments riven. 

Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven; 

Saw the long column of revolving flames 

Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames, lo 

While thousands, thronged around the burning dome. 

Shrank back appalled, and trembled for their home. 

As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone 

The skies, with lightnings awful as their own. 

Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall 15 

Usurped the Muse's realm, and marked her fall; 

Say — shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, 

Reared where once rose the mightiest in our isle, 

Know the same favor which the former knew, 

A shrine for Shakespeare — worthy him and youf 20 

Yes — it shall be — the magic of that name 
Defies the scythe of Time, the torch of Flame; 

15 



16 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

On the same spot still consecrates the scene, 

And bids the Drama be where she hath been: 

This fabric's birth attests the potent spell — 25 

Indulge our honest pride, and say. How well! 

As soars this fane to emulate the last, 
Oh! might we draw our omens from the past, 
Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast 
Names such as hallow still the dome we lost. 30 

On Drury first your Siddons' thrilUing art 
O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, stormed the sternest heart. 
On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew; 
Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew, 
Sighed his last thanks, and wept his last adieu: 35 

But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom, 
That only waste their odors o'er the tomb. 
Such Drury claimed and claims — nor you refuse 
One tribute to revive his slumbering muse; 
With garlands deck your own Menander's head, 40 

Nor hoard your honors idly for the dead! 

Dear are the days which made our annals bright. 
Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write, 
Heirs to their labors, like all high-born heirs, 
Vain of our ancestry as they of theirs; 45 

While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's glass 
To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass, 
And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine 
Immortal names, emblazoned on our line. 
Pause — ere their feebler offspring you condemn, so 

Reflect how hard the task to rival them! 



ADDRESS 17 

Friends of the stage I to whom both Players and Plays 
Must sue alike for pardon or for praise, 
Whose judging voice and eye alone direct 
The boundless power to cherish or reject; 55 

If e'er frivolity has led to fame, 
And made us blush that you forbore to blame, 
If e'er the sinking stage could condescend 
To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend, 
All past reproach may present scenes refute, 60 

And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute! 
Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws, 
Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause; 
So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers. 
And reason's voice be echoed back by ours! 65 

This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obeyed, 
The Drama's homage by her herald paid. 
Receive 02ir welcome too, whose every tone 
Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own. 
The curtain rises — may our stage unfold 70 

Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old! 
Britons our judges. Nature for our guide. 
Still may we please — long, long may you preside. 



WHEN WE TWO PARTED 

When we two parted 

In silence and tears, 
Half broken-hearted 

To sever for years, 
Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 6 

Colder thy kiss; 
Truly that hour foretold 

Sorrow to this. 

The dew of the morning 

Sunk chill on my brow — lo 

It felt like the warning 

Of what I feel now. 
Thy vows are all broken. 

And light is thy fame; 
I hear thy name spoken, 15 

And share in its shame. 

They name thee before me, 

A knell to mine ear; 
A shudder comes o'er me — 

Why wert thou so dear? 20 

They know not I knew thee. 

Who knew thee too well: — 
Long, long shall I rue thee. 

Too deeply to tell. 
18 



WHEN WE TWO PARTED 10 

In secret we met — 25 

In silence I grieve, 
That thy heart could forget. 

Thy spirit deceive. 
If I should meet thee 

After long years, 30 

How should I greet thee? — 

With silence and tears. 



HEBREW MELODIES 

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY 



She walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies; 

And all that's best of dark and bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes: 

Thus mellowed to that tender light 5 

Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

II 

One shade the more, one ray the less. 
Had half impaired the nameless grace 

Which waves in every raven tress. 

Or softly lightens o'er her face; lo 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

Ill 

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, is 

But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent! 
20 



HEBREW MELODIES 21 

THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL 
SWEPT 



The harp the monarch minstrel swept. 

The King of men, the loved of Heaven, 
Which Music hallowed while she wept 

O'er tones her heart of hearts had given. 

Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven I 5 

It softened men of iron mould, 

It gave them virtues not their own; 
No ear so dull, no soul so cold, 

That felt not, fired not to the tone, 

Till David's lyre grew mightier than his throne, lo 

II 

It told the triumphs of our King, 

It wafted glory to our God; 
It made our gladdened valleys ring, 

The cedars bow, the mountains nod; 

Its sound aspired to heaven and there abode I i5 

Since then, though heard on earth no more, 

Devotion and her daughter Love, 
Still bid the bursting spirit soar 

To sounds that seem as from above. 

In dreams that day's broad light cannot remove. 20 



22 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

IF THAT HIGH WORLD 



If that high world, which lies beyond 

Our own, surviving Love endears; 
If there the cherished heart be fond, 

The eye the same, except in tears — 
How welcome those untrodden spheres! 5 

How sweet this very hour to die! 
To soar from earth, and find all fears 

Lost in thy light — Eternity! 

II 

It must be so: *tis not for self 

That we so tremble on the brink; lo 

And striving to o'erleap the gulf. 

Yet cling to Being's severing link. 
Oh! in that future let us think 

To hold each heart the heart that shares; 
With them the immortal waters drink, 15 

And soul in soul grow deathless theirs! 

THE WILD GAZELLE 



The wild gazelle on Judah's hills 

Exulting yet may bound. 
And drink from all the living rills 

That gush on holy ground; 
Its airy step and glorious eye 
May glance in tameless transport by: 



HEBREW MELODIES 2.S 

II 

A step as fleet, an eye more bright, 

Hath Judah witnessed there. 
And o'er her scenes of lost deHght 

Inhabitants more fair. 10 

The cedars wave on Lebanon, 
But Judah's statelier maids are gone! 

Ill 

More blest each palm that shades those plains 

Than Israel's scattered race; 
For, taking root, it there remains 15 

In solitary grace: 
It cannot quit its place of birth. 
It will not live in other earth. 

IV 

But we must wander witheringly, 

In other lands to die; 20 

And where our fathers' ashes be, 

Our own may never lie: 
Our temple hath not left a stone. 
And Mockery sits on Salem's throne. 



OH! WEEP FOR THOSE 



Oh! weep for those that wept by Babel's stream, 
Whose shrines are desolate, whose land a dream; 
Weep for the harp of Judah's broken shell; 
Mourn — where their God hath dwelt, the Godless dwell ! 



24 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 



And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet? 6 

And when shall Zion's songs again seem sweet? 

And Judah's melody once more rejoice 

The hearts that leaped before its heavenly voice? 

Ill 

Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast. 

How shall ye flee away and be at rest! lO 

The wild-dove hath her nest, the fox his cave, 

Mankind their country — Israel but the gravel 



ON JORDAN'S BANKS 



On Jordan's banks the Arab's camels stray, 

On Sion's hill the False One's votaries pray, 

The Baal-adorer bows on Sinai's steep — 

Yet there — even there — O God! Thy thunders sleep: 

II 

There — where Thy finger scorched the tablet stone! 6 

There — where Thy shadow to Thy people shone! 
Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire: 
Thyself — none living see and not expire! 

Ill 

Oh! in the lightning let Thy glance appear: 

Sweep from his shivered hand the oppressor's spear! lO 

How long by tyrants shall Thy land be trod? 

How long Thy temple worshipless, O God? 



HEBREW MELODIES 25 



JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER 



Since our Country, our God — oh, my sire! 
Demand that thy daughter expire; 
Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow- 
Strike the bosom that's bared for thee now! 



And the voice of my mourning is o'er, 5 

And the mountains behold me no more: 
If the hand that I love lay me low, 
There cannot be pain in the blow! 

Ill 

And of this, oh, my father! be sure — 

That the blood of thy child is as pure lo 

As the blessing I beg ere it flow. 

And the last thought that soothes me below. 

IV 

Though the virgins of Salem lament. 

Be the judge and the hero unbent! 

I have won the great battle for thee, 16 

And my father and Country are free! 



When this blood of thy giving hath gushed. 

When the voice that thou lovest is hushed, 

Let my memory still be thy pride, 

And forget not I smiled as I died! 20 



26 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

OH! SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM 



Oh! snatched away in beauty's bloom, 
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; 

But on thy turf shall roses rear 

Their leaves, the earliest of the year; 
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom: 5 

II 

And oft by yon blue gushing stream 

Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head. 
And feed deep thought with many a dream. 

And lingering pause and lightly tread; 

Fond wretch ! as if her step disturbed the dead ! lo 

III 

Away! we know that tears are vain. 

That death nor heeds nor hears distress: 

Will this unteach us to complain? 
Or make one mourner weep the less? 

And thou — who tell'st me to forget, 15 

Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 



MY SOUL IS DARK 



My soul is dark — oh! quickly string 
The harp I yet can brook to hear; 

And let thy gentle fingers fling 

Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. 



HEBREW MELODIES 27 

If in this heart a hope be dear, s 

That sound shall charm it forth again: 

If in these eyes there lurk a tear, 

'Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain. 



But bid the strain be wild and deep. 

Nor let thy notes of joy be first: 10 

I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep, 

Or else this heavy heart will burst; 
For it hath been by sorrow nursed, 

And ached in sleepless silence long; 
And now 'tis doomed to know the worst, 15 

And break at once — or yield to song. 



I SAW THEE WEEP 



I SAW thee weep — the big bright tear 

Came o'er that eye of blue; 
And then methought it did appear 

A violet dropping dew: 
I saw thee smile — the sapphire's blaze 

Beside thee ceased to shine; 
It could not match the living rays 

That filled that glance of thine. 



As clouds from yonder sun receive 

A deep and mellow dye, lo 

Which scarce the shade of coming eve 

Can banish from the sky, 



28 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

Those smiles unto the moodiest mind 

Their own pure joy impart; 
Their sunshine leaves a glow behind 15 

That lightens o'er the heart. 



THY DAYS ARE DONE 



Thy days are done, thy fame begun; 

Thy country's strains record 
The triumphs of her chosen son, 

The slaughters of his sword! 
The deeds he did, the fields he won, 5 

The freedom he restored! 

II 

Though thou art fall'n, while we are free 

Thou shalt not taste of death! 
The generous blood that flowed from thee 

Disdained to sink beneath: lo 

Within our veins its currents be. 

Thy spirit on our breath! 

Ill 

Thy name, our charging hosts along, 

Shall be the battle-word! 
Thy fall, the theme of choral song is 

From virgin voices poured! 
To weep would do thy glory wrong: 

Thou shalt not be deplored. 



HEBREW MELODIES 29 

SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST BATTLE 



Warriors and chiefs! should the shaft or the sword 
Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord, 
Heed not the corse, though a king's, in your path: 
Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath! 

II 

Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow, 5 

Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe, 
Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet! 
Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet. 

Ill 

Farewell to others, but never we part. 

Heir to my royalty, son of my heart! 10 

Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway. 

Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day I 



SAUL 



Thou whose spell can raise the dead. 
Bid the prophet's form appear. 

'Samuel, raise thy buried head! 
King, behold the phantom seer!" 



30 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

Earth yawned; he stood the centre of a cloud: 5 

Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud. 

Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye; 

His hand was withered, and his veins were dry; 

His foot, in bony whiteness, glittered there. 

Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare; lo 

From lips that moved not and unbreathing frame. 

Like caverned winds, the hollow accents came. 

Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak. 

At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke. 



"Why is my sleep disquieted? 15 

Who is he that calls the dead? 

Is it thou, O King? Behold, 

Bloodless are these limbs, and cold: 

Such are mine; and such shall be 

Thine to-morrow, when with me: 20 

Ere the coming day is done. 

Such shalt thou be, such thy son. 

Fare thee well, but for a day. 

Then we mix our mouldering clay. 

Thou, thy race, lie pale and low, 25 

Pierced by shafts of many a bow; 

And the falchion by thy side 

To thy heart thy hand shall guide: 

Crownless, breathless, headless fall. 

Son and sire, the house of Saul!" 30 



HEBREW MELODIES 31 



"ALL IS VANITY, SAITH THE PREACHER" 



Fame, wisdom, love, and power were mine, 

And health and youth possessed me; 
My goblets blushed from every vine. 

And lovely forms caressed me: 
I sunned my heart in beauty's eyes, 

And felt my soul grow tender; 
All earth can give, or mortal prize. 

Was mine of regal splendor. 



I strive to number o'er what days 

Remembrance can discover, lo 

Which all that life or earth displays 

Would lure me to live over. 
There rose no day, there rolled no hour 

Of pleasure unembittered ; 
And not a trapping decked my powder 15 

That galled not while it glittered. 

Ill 

The serpent of the field, by art 

And spells, is won from harming; 
But that which coils around the heart. 

Oh! who hath power of charming? 20 

It will not list to wisdom's lore. 

Nor music's voice can lure it; 
But there it stings for evermore 

The soul that must endure it. 



32 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 



WHEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS SUFFERING 
CLAY 



When coldness wraps this suffering clay. 

Ah! whither strays the immortal mind? 
It cannot die, it cannot stay, 

But leaves its darkened dust behind. 
Then, unembodied, doth it trace 5 

By steps each planet's heavenly way? 
Or fill at once the realms of space, 

A thing of eyes, that all survey? 

II 

Eternal, boundless, undecayed, 

A thought unseen, but seeing all, lO 

All, all in earth, or skies displayed. 

Shall it survey, shall it recall: 
Each fainter trace that memory holds 

So darkly of departed years, 
In one broad glance the soul beholds, 15 

And all that was, at once appears. 

Ill 

Before Creation peopled earth. 

Its eye shall roll through chaos back; 

And where the furthest heaven had birth. 
The spirit trace its rising track. 20 



HEBREW MELODIES \i:\ 

And where the future mars or makes, 

Its glance dilate o'er all to be, 
While sun is quenched or system breaks, 

Fixed in its own eternity. 

IV 

Above or love, hope, hate, or fear, 25 

It lives all passionless and pure: 
An age shall fleet like earthly year; 

Its years as moments shall endure. 
Away, away, without a wing. 

O'er all, through all, its thought shall fly; so 
A nameless and eternal thing. 

Forgetting w'hat it was to die. 



VISION OF BELSHAZZAR. 



The King was on his throne, 

The Satraps thronged the hall; 
A thousand bright lamps shone 

O'er that high festival. 
A thousand cups of gold, 5 

In Judah deemed divine — 
Jehovah's vessels hold 

The godless Heathen's wine. 

II 

In that same hour and hall. 

The fingers of a hand 10 

Came forth against the wall. 

And wrote as if on sand: 



34 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

The fingers of a man; — 

A solitary hand 
Along the letters ran, 15 

And traced them like a wand. 



Ill 

The monarch saw, and shook. 

And bade no more rejoice; 
All bloodless waxed his look. 

And tremulous his voice. 20 

"Let the men of lore appear. 

The wisest of the earth, 
And expound the words of fear. 

Which mar our royal mirth." 

IV 

Chaldea's seers are good, 25 

But here they have no skill; 
And the unknown letters stood 

Untold and awful still. 
And Babel's men of age 

Are wise and deep in lore; 30 

But now they were not sage. 

They saw — but knew no more. 



A captive in the land, 

A stranger and a youth, 
He heard the King's command, 35 

He saw that writing's truth. 



HEBREW MELODIES 35 

The lamps around were bright. 

The prophecy in view; 
He read it on that night, — 

The morrow proved it true. 40 

VI 

" Belshazzar's grave is made. 

His kingdom passed away. 
He, in the balance weighed. 

Is light and worthless clay; 
The shroud his robe of state, 45 

His canopy the stone; 
The Mede is at his gate! 

The Persian on his throne!" 



SUN OF THE SLEEPLESS 

Sun of the sleepless! melancholy star! 
Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far, 
That show'st the darkness thou canst not dispel 
How like art thou to joy remembered well! 
So gleams the past, the light of other days. 
Which shines, but warms not with its powerless rays; 
A night-beam Sorrow watcheth to behold, 
Distinct, but distant — clear — but, oh, how cold! 



36 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 



WERE MY BOSOM AS FALSE AS THOU 
DEEM'ST IT TO BE. 



Were my bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be, 

I need not have wandered from far GaHlee; 

It was but abjuring my creed to efface 

The curse which, thou say'st, is the crime of my race. 

II 

If the bad never triumph, then God is with thee I s 

If the slave only sin, thou art spotless and free I 
If the exile on earth is an outcast on high. 
Live on in thy faith, but in mine I will die. 

Ill j 

I have lost for that faith more than thou canst bestow, t 

As the God who permits thee to prosper doth know; lo 

In His hand is my heart and my hope — and in thine 
The land and the life which for Him I resign. 



HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE. 

I 

Oh, Mariamne! now for thee 

The heart for which thou bled'st is bleeding; 
Revenge is lost in agony, 

And wild remorse to rage succeeding. 
Oh, Mariamne! where art thou? 

Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading: 



HEBREW MELODIES 37 

Ah! couldst thou — thou wouldst pardon now, 
Though Heaven were to my prayer unheeding. 

II 

And is she dead ? — and did they dare 

Obey my frenzy's jealous raving? lo 

My wrath but doomed my own despair: 

The sword that smote her's o'er me waving. — 
But thou art cold, my murdered love! 

And this dark heart is vainly craving 
For her who soars alone above, 15 

And leaves my soul unworthy saving. 

Ill 

She's gone, who shared my diadem; 

She sunk, with her my joys entombing; 
I swept that flower from Judah's stem 

Whose leaves for me alone are blooming; 20 

And mine's the guilt, and mine the hell. 

This bosom's desolation dooming; 
And I have earned those tortures well. 

Which unconsumed are still consuming! 



ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF 
JERUSALEM BY TITUS 



From the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome, 
I beheld thee, O Sion, when rendered to Rome: 
'Twas thy last sun went down, and the flames of thy fall 
Flashed back on the last glance I gave to thy wall. 



38 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

II 

I looked for thy temple, I looked for my home, 5 

And forgot for a moment my bondage to come; 

I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane, 

And the fast-fettered hands that made vengeance in vain. 

Ill 

On many an eve, the high spot whence I gazed 

Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed; lo 

While I stood on the height and beheld the decline 

Of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy shrine. 

IV 

And now on that mountain I stood on that day. 

But I marked not the twilight beam melting away; 

Oh I would that the lightning had glared in its stead, 15 

And the thunder-bolt burst on the conqueror's head ! 



But the gods of the Pagan shall never profane 

The shrine where Jehovah disdained not to reign; 

And scattered and scorned as thy people may be. 

Our worship, O Father! is only for Thee. 20 



BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON WE SAT 
DOWN AND WEPT 



We sate down and wept by the waters 

Of Babel, and thought of the day 
When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters, 



HEBREW MEEODIES 39 

Made Salem's hi<i;h })laces liis prey; 
And ye, oh her desolate daughters I 6 

Were scattered all weeping away. 

II 

While sadly we gazed on the river 

Which rolled on in freedom below. 
They demanded the song; but, oh never 

That triumph the stranger shall know I lo 

May this right hand be withered forever. 

Ere it string our high harp for the foel 

III 

On the willow that harp is suspended, 
Oh Salem! its sound should be free; 

And the hour when thy glories were ended 16 

But left me that token of thee: 

And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended 
With the voice of the spoiler by me I 



BY THE WATERS OF BABYLON 



In the valley of waters we wept on the day 
When the host of the Stranger made Salem his prey; 
And our heads on our bosoms all droopingly lay, 
And our hearts were so full of the land far away I 

II 

The song they demanded in vain — it lay still 

In our souls as the wind that hath died on the hill; 



40 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

They called for the harp — but our blood they shall spill 
Ere our right hands shall teach them one tone of their 
skill. 

Ill 

All stringlessly hung in the willow's sad tree, 
As dead as her dead-leaf, those mute harps must be: lo 

Our hands may be fettered, — our hearts still are free 
For our God, and our glory, and Zion, oh Thee! 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB 



The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

II 

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, 5 

That host with their banners at sunset were seen: 
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, 
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. 

HI 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast. 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; lo 

And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill. 
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still I 



HEBREW MELODIES 41 

IV 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide. 
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride: 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 15 

And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 



And there lay the rider distorted and pale. 

With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail; 

And the tents were all silent — the banners alone — 

The lances unlifted — the trumpet unblown. 20 

VI 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail. 
And the idols are broken in the temple of Baal; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword. 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lordl 



A SPIRIT PASSED BEFORE ME 

From Job 

A SPIRIT passed before me: I beheld 

The face of immortality unveiled — 

Deep sleep came down on every eye save mine — 

And there it stood, — all formless — but divine: 

Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake; 

And as my damp hair stiffened, thus it spake: 

" Is man more just than God ? Is man more pure 
Than He who deems even seraphs insecure? 



42 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

Creatures of clay — vain dwellers in the dust I 
The moth survives you, and are ye more just ? lo 

Things of a day! you wither ere the night, 
Heedless and blind to Wisdom's wasted light!'* 



PROMETHEUS 



Titan! to whose immortal eyes 

The sufferings of mortality. 

Seen in their sad reality, 
Were not as things that gods despise. 
What was thy pity's recompense? 5 

A silent suffering, and intense; 
The rock, the vulture, and the chain. 
All that the proud can feel of pain, 
The agony they do not show. 
The suffocating sense of woe, lo 

Which speaks but in its loneliness. 
And then is jealous lest the sky 
Shoulo have a listener, nor will sigh 

Until Iiis voice is echoless. 



Titan! to thee the strife was given 15 

Between the suffering and the will. 
Which torture where they cannot kill; 

And in the inexorable Heaven, 

And the deaf tyranny of Fate, 

The ruling principle of Hate, 20 

Which for its pleasure doth create 

The things it may annihilate. 

Refused thee even the boon to die: 

The wretched gift Eternity 
43 



44 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

Was thine — and thou hast borne it well. 25 

All that the Thunderer wrung from thee 

Was but the menace which flung back 

On him the torments of thy rack; 

The fate thou didst so well foresee, 

But would not to appease him tell; 30 

And in thy Silence was his Sentence, 

And in his soul a vain repentance. 

And evil dread so ill dissembled 

That in his hands the lightnings trembled. 

Ill 

Thy godlike crime was to be kind, 35 

To render with thy precepts less 

The sum of human wretchedness, 
And strengthen Man with his own mind; 
But bafiled as thou wert from high, 
Still in thy patient energy, 40 

In the endurance, and repulse 

Of thine impenetrable Spirit 
Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse, 

A mighty lesson we inherit: 
Thou art a symbol and a sign 45 

To mortals of their fate and force; 
Like thee, Man is in part divine, 

A troubled stream from a pure source; 
And Man in portions can foresee 
His own funereal destiny; 50 

His wretchedness, and his resistance. 
And his sad unallied existence: 
To which his Spirit may oppose 
Itself — an equal to all woes. 



PROMETHEUS 45 

And in a firm will, and a deep sense 66 

Which even in torture can descry 

Its own concentred recompense, 
Triumphant where it dares defy. 
And making Death a Victory I 



TO THOMAS ]\IOORE 

I 

My boat is on the shore 

And my bark is on the sea; 
But, before I go, Tom Moore, 

Here's a double health to thee I 

II 

Here's a sigh to those who love me, 5 

And a smile to those who hate; 
And, whatever sky's above me, 

Here's a heart for every fate. 

Ill 

Though the ocean roar around me. 

Yet it still shall bear me on; 10 

Though a desert should surround me. 

It hath springs that may be won. 

IV 

Were't the last drop in the well. 

As I gasped upon the brink. 
Ere my fainting spirit fell, is 

'Tis to thee that I would drink. 



With that water, as this wine, 

The libation I would pour 
Should be — peace with thine and mine. 

And a health to thee, Tom Moore. 20 

46 



ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY 
THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR 

MissoLONGHi, January 22, 1824. 
*Tis time this heart should be unmoved, 

Since others it hath ceased to move: 
Yet, though I cannot be beloved, 
Still let me love! 

My days are in the yellow leaf; 5 

The flowers and fruits of love are gone; 
The worm, the canker, and the grief 
Are mine alone! 

The fire that on my bosom preys 

Is lone as some volcanic Isle; lo 

No torch is kindled at its blaze — 
A funeral pile. 

The hope, the fear, the jealous care. 

The exalted portion of the pain 
And power of love, I cannot share, 15 

But wear the chain. 

But 'tis not thus — and 'tis not here — 

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor nowy 
Where glory decks the hero's bier, 

Or binds his brow. 20 

47 



48 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

The sword, the banner, and the field, 
Glory and Greece, around me see! 
The Spartan, borne upon his shield. 
Was not more free. 

Awake! (not Greece — she is awake!) 25 

Awake, my spirit! Think through whom 
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake. 
And then strike home! 

Tread those reviving passions down. 

Unworthy manhood ! — unto thee 30 

Indifferent should the smile or frown 
Of beauty be. 

If thou regret'st thy youth, why live? 

The land of honorable death 
Is here: — up to the field, and give 35 

Away thy breath! 

Seek out — less often sought than found — 

A soldier's grave, for thee the best; 
Then look around, and choose thy ground. 

And take thy rest. 40 



CIIILDE HAROLD 

CANTO THE FOURTH 



I STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; 
A palace and a prison on eacli hand: 
I saw from out the wave her structures rise 
As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand: 
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 5 

Around me, and a dying Glory smiles 
O'er the far times, w^hen many a subject land 
Looked to the winged Lion's marble piles, 
AVhere Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles! 

II 

She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, lo 

Rising with her tiara of proud towers 
At airy distance, with majestic motion, 
A ruler of the waters and their powers: 
And such she was; — her daughters had their dowers 
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East is 

Poured in her lap all gems in sparkling showers. 
In purple was she robed, and of her feast 
Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increased. 

Ill 

In Venice, Tasso's echoes are no more. 
And silent rows the songless gondolier; 20 

49 



50 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

Her palaces are crumbling to the shore. 
And music meets not always now the ear: 
Those days are gone — but Beauty still is here. 
States fall, arts fade — but Nature doth not die. 
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, 25 

The pleasant place of all festivity, 
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy I 

IV 

But unto us she hath a spell beyond 
Her name in story, and her long array 
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond 30 

Above the dogeless city's vanished sway; 
Ours is a trophy which will not decay 
With the Rial to; Shylock and the Moor, 
And Pierre, can not be swept or worn away — 
The keystones of the arch ! though all were o'er, 35 

For us repeopled were the solitary shore. 

V 

The beings of the mind are not of clay; 
Essentially immortal, they create 
And multiply in us a brighter ray 

And more beloved existence: that which Fate 40 

Prohibits to dull life, in this our state 
Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied. 
First exiles, then replaces what we hate; 
Watering the heart whose early flowers have died. 
And with a fresher growth replenishing the void. 45 

VI 

Such is the refuge of our youth and age, 
The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy; 



CTIILDE HAROLD 51 

And this worn feeling peoples many a page, 
And, may be, that which grows beneath mine eye: 
Yet there are things whose strong reality 60 

Outshines our fairy-land; in shape and hues 
More beautiful than our fantastic sky, 
And the strange constellations which the Muse 
O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse: 

VII 

I saw or dreamed of such, — but let them go, — 55 

They came like truth, and disappeared like dreams; 
And whatsoe'er they were — are now but so; 
I could replace them if I would, — still teems 
My mind with many a form which aptly seems 
Such as I sought for, and at moments found; 60 

Let these too go — for waking Reason deems 
Such overweening fantasies unsound. 
And other voices speak, and other sights surround. 

VIII 

I've taught me other tongues — and in strange eyes 
Have made me not a stranger; to the mind 65 

Which is itself, no changes bring surprise; 
Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find 
A country with — ay, or without mankind; 
Yet was I born where men are proud to be, — 
Not without cause; and should I leave behind 70 

The inviolate island of the sage and free, 
And seek me out a home by a remoter sea, 

IX 

Perhaps I loved it well: and should I lay 
My ashes in a soil which is not mine, 



52 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

My spirit shall resume it — if we may 75 

Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine 
My hopes of being remembered in my line 
With my land's language: if too fond and far 
These aspirations in their scope incline, — 
If my fame should be, as my fortunes are, so 

Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion 
bar 



My name from out the temple where the dead 
Are honored by the nations — let it be — 
And light the laurels on a loftier head! 
And be the Spartan's epitaph on me — 85 

" Sparta hath many a worthier son than he.'* 
Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need; 
The thorns which I have reaped are of the tree 
I planted, — they have torn me, — and I bleed: 
I should have known what fruit would spring from 

such a seed. ^^ 

XI 

The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord; 
And, annual marriage now no more renewed, 
The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored. 
Neglected garment of her widowhood! 
St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood 95 

Stand, but in mockery of his withered power, 
Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued, 
And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour 
When Venice was a queen with an unequalled 
dower. 



CIIILDE HAROLD 53 

XII 

The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns — loo 
An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt; 
Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains 
Clank over sceptred cities; nations melt 
From power's high pinnacle, when they have felt 
The sunshine for a while, and downward go 105 

Like lauwine loosened from the mountain's belt; 
Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo! 
Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe. 

XIII 

Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, 
Their gilded collars glittering in the sun; no 

But is not Doria's menace come to pass? 
Are they not bridled? — Venice, lost and w-on, 
Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done. 
Sinks, like a sea-w^eed, into whence she rose! 
Better be whelmed beneath the waves, and shun, lis 

Even in destruction's depth, her foreign foes. 
From whom submission wrings an infamous repose. 

XIV 

In youth she was all glory, — a new Tyre, — 
Her very by-w^ord sprung from victory. 
The " Planter of the Lion," which through fire 120 

And blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea; 
Though making many slaves, herself still free. 
And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite: 
Witness Troy's rival, Candia! Vouch it, ye 
Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight! 125 

For ye are names nO time nor tyranny can blight. 



54 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

XV 

Statues of glass — all shivered — the long file 
Of her dead Doges are declined to dust; 
But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile 
Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust; 130 

Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust. 
Have yielded to the stranger: empty halls, 
Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must 
Too oft remind her who and what enthralls. 
Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely walls. i35 

XVI 

When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, 
And fettered thousands bore the yoke of war, 
Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse, 
Her voice their only ransom from afar: 
Seel as they chant the tragic hymn, the car 140 

Of the o'ermastered victor stops — the reins 
Fall from his hands — his idle scimitar 
Starts from its belt — he rends his captive's chains. 
And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his strains. 

XVII 

Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine, 145 

Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, 
Thy choral memory of the Bard divine. 
The love of Tasso, should have cut the knot 
Which ties thee to thy tyrants; and thy lot 
Is shameful to the nations, — most of all iso 

Albion, to thee: the Ocean queen should not 
Abandon Ocean's children; in the fall 
Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wall. 



CHILDE HAROLD 55 



XVIII 



I loved her from my boyhood: she to me 
Was as a fairy city of the heart, 
Rising Uke water-columns from the sea, 
Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart; 
And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakespeare's art, 
Had stamped her image in me, and even so. 
Although I found her thus, we did not part; 
Perchance even dearer in her day of woe, 
Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show. 



155 



160 



XIX 



I can repeople with the past— and of 
The present there is still for eye and thought, 
And meditation chastened down, enough; 
And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought; 
And of the happiest moments which were wrought 
Within the web of my existence, some 
From thee, fair Venice! have their colors caught: 
There are some feelings Time cannot benumb. 
Nor Torture shake, or mine would now be cold and dumb. 



165 



170 



XX 



But from their nature will the tannen grow 
Loftiest on loftiest and least sheltered rocks, 
Rooted in barrenness, where nought below 
Of soil supports them 'gainst the Alpine shocks i75 

Of eddying storms; yet springs the trunk, and mocks 
The howling tempest, till its height and frame 
Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks 
Of bleak, gray granite, into life it came. 
And grew a giant tree;— the mind may grow the same. i80 



56 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

XXI 

Existence may be borne, and the deep root 
Of life and sufferance make its firm abode 
In bare and desolated bosoms: mute 
The camel labors with the heaviest load, 
And the wolf dies in silence, — not bestowed 185 

In vain should such examples be; if they. 
Things of ignoble or of savage mood. 
Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay 
May temper it to bear, — it is but for a day. 

XXII 

All suffering doth destroy, or is destroyed, 190 

Even by the sufferer — and, in each event, 
Ends: — Some with hope replenished and rebuoyed. 
Return to whence they came — with like intent. 
And weave their web again; some, bowed and bent. 
Wax gray and ghastly, withering ere their time, 195 

And perish with the reed on which they leant; 
Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime, 
According as their souls were formed to sink or climb. 

XXIII 

But ever and anon of griefs subdued 

There comes a token like a scorpion's sting, 200 

Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued; 
And slight withal may be the things which bring 
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling 
Aside forever: it may be a sound — 

A tone of music — summer's eve — or spring — 205 

A flower — the wind — the ocean — which shall wound. 
Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound : 



CIIILDE HAROLD 57 

XXIV 

And how and why we know not, nor can trace 
Home to its cloud this Hghtning of the mind, 
But feel the shock renewed, nor can efiace 210 

The blight and blackening which it leaves behind, 
Which out of things familiar, undesigned. 
When least we deem of such, call up to view 
The spectres whom no exorcism can bind, — 
The cold — the changed — perchance the dead — anew — 215 
The mourned, the loved, the lost— too many !— yet how 
few! 

XXV 

But my soul wanders; I demand it back 
To meditate amongst decay, and stand 
A ruin amidst ruins; there to track 

Fallen states and buried greatness, o'er a land 220 

Which ivas the mightiest in its old command, 
And is the loveliest, and must ever be 
The master-mould of Nature's heavenly hand, 
Wherein were cast the heroic and the free, — 
The beautiful, the brave— the lords of earth and sea, 225 

XXVI 

The commonwealth of kings— the men of Rome! 
And ever since, and now, fair Italy! 
Thou art the garden of the world, the home 
Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree; 
Even in thy desert, what is like to thee? 230 

The very weeds are beautiful — thy waste 
More rich than other climes' fertility; 
Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced 
With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced. 



58 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

xxvir 
The moon is up, and yet it is not night — 235 

Sunset divides the sky with her — a sea 
Of glory streams along the Alpine height 
Of blue Friuli's mountains; Heaven is free 
From clouds, but of all colors seems to be, — 
Melted to one vast Iris of the West, 240 

Where the Day joins the past Eternity; 
While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest 
Floats through the azure air — an island of the blest! 

XXVIII 

A single star is at her side, and reigns 
With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still 245 

Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains 
Rolled o'er the peak of the far Rhaetian hill, 
As Day and Night contending were, until 
Nature reclaimed her order: — gently flows 
The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil 250 

The odorous purple of a new-born rose. 
Which streams upon her stream, and glassed within it 
glows. 

XXIX 

Filled with the face of heaven, which, from afar. 
Comes down upon the waters; all its hues. 
From the rich sunset to the rising star, 255 

Their magical variety diffuse: 
And now they change; a paler shadow strews 
Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting day 
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues — 
With a new color as it gasps away, 260 

The last still loveliest, till — 'tis gone — and all is gray. 



CHILDE HAROLD 50 

XXX 

There is a tomh in Arqua; — reared in air, 
Pillared in their sareophagus, repose 
The bones of Laura's lover: here repair 
Many familiar with his well-sung woes, 265 

The pilgrims of his genius. He arose 
To raise a language, and his land reclaim 
From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes: 
Watering the tree which bears his lady's name 
With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. 270 

XXXI 

They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died — 
The mountain-village where his latter days 
Went down the vale of years; and 'tis their pride — 
An honest pride — and let it be their praise. 
To offer to the passing stranger's gaze 275 

His mansion and his sepulchre; both plain 
And venerably simple, such as raise 
A feeling more accordant with his strain 
Than if a pyramid formed his monumental fane. 

XXXII 

And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt 280 

Ls one of that complexion which seems made 
P^or those who their mortality have felt. 
And sought a refuge from their hopes decayed 
In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade. 
Which shows a distant prospect far away 285 

Of busy cities, now in vain displayed, 
For they can lure no further; and the ray 
Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday. 



60 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

XXXIII 

Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers, 
And shining in the brawling brook, where-by 290 

Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours 
With a calm languor, which, though to the eye 
Idlesse it seem, hath its morality. 
If from society we learn to live, 

'Tis solitude should teach us how to die; 295 

It hath no flatterers; vanity can give 
No hollow aid; alone— man with his God must strive: 

XXXIV 

Or, it may be, with demons, who impair 
The strength of better thoughts, and seek their prey 
In melancholy bosoms, such as were ' 300 

Of moody texture from their earliest day. 
And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay, 
Deeming themselves predestined to a doom 
Which is not of the pangs that pass away; 
Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb, 305 

The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom. 

XXXV 

Ferrara! in thy wide and grass-grown streets. 
Whose symmetry was not for solitude, 
There seems as 'twere a curse upon the seats 
Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood 310 

Of Este, which for many an age made good 
Its strength within thy walls, and was of yore 
Patron or tyrant, as the changing mood 
Of petty power impelled, of those who wore 
The wreath which Dante's brow alone had worn before, 315 



CHILDE HAROLD (il 



XXXVI 



And Tasso is their glory and their shame. 
Hark to his strain! and theii survey his cell I 
And see how dearly earned Torquato's fame. 
And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell: 
The miserable despot could not quell 320 

The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend 
With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell 
Where he had plunged it. Glory without end 
Scattered the clouds away — and on that name attend 

XXXVII 

The tears and praises of all time, while thine 325 

W'ould rot in its oblivion — in the sink 
Of worthless dust, which from thy boasted line 
Is shaken into nothing; but the link 
Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think 
Of thy poor malice, naming thee with scorn: — 330 

Alfonso! how thy ducal pageants shrink 
From thee! if in another station born 
Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou madest to mourn : 

XXXVIII 

Thou! formed to eat, and be despised, and die, 
Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou 335 

Hadst a more splendid trough, and wider sty; 
He! with a glory round his furrowed brow, 
Which emanated then, and dazzles now. 
In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire. 
And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow 340 

Xo strain which shamed his country's creaking lyre. 
That whetstone of the teeth — monotony in wire! 



62 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

XXXIX 

Peace to Torquato's injured shade! *twas his 
In life and death to be the mark where Wrong 
Aimed with her poisoned arrows, — but to miss. 345 

Oh, victor unsurpassed in modern song! 
Each year brings forth its millions; but how long 
The tide of generations shall roll on. 
And not the whole combined and countless throng 
Compose a mind like thine? though all in one 350 

Condensed their scattered rays, they would not form a sun. 

XL 

Great as thou art, yet paralleled by those. 
Thy countrymen, before thee born to shine. 
The Bards of Hell and Chivalry: first rose 
The Tuscan father's comedy divine; 355 

Then, not unequal to the Florentine, 
The Southern Scott, the minstrel who called forth 
A new creation with his magic line. 
And, like the Ariosto of the North, 
Sang ladye-love and war, rom^ance and knightly worth. 360 

XLI 

The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust 
The iron crown of laurel's mimicked leaves; 
Nor was the ominous element unjust, 
For the true laurel-wreath which Glory weaves 
Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves, 365 

And the false semblance but disgraced his brow; 
Yet still, if fondly Superstition grieves. 
Know, that the lightning sanctifies below 
Whate'er it strikes; — yon head is doubly sacred now. 



CIIILDE HAROLD 0:5 

XLII 

Italia! O Italia I thou who hast 370 

The fatal ^Ht of beauty, which became 
A funeral dower of j)resent woes and past, 
On thy sweet brow is sorrow ploughed by shame. 
And annals graved in characters of flame. 
Oh, God! that thou wert in thy nakedness 375 

Less lovely or more pow^erful, and couldst claim 
Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press 
To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress; 

XLIII 

Then might'st thou more appal; or, less desired. 
Be homely and be peaceful, undcplored 380 

For thy destructive charms; then, still untired. 
Would not be seen the armed torrents poured 
Down the deep Alps; nor would the hostile horde 
Of many-nationed spoilers from the Po 
(^uaff blood and water; nor the stranger's sword 3S5 

Be thy sad weapons of defence, and so, 
Victor or vanquished, thou the slave of friend or foe. 

XLIV 

Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him, 
The Roman friend of Rome's least-mortal mind. 
The friend of Tully: as my bark did skim 390 

The bright blue waters with a fanning wind. 
Came Megara before me, and behind 
MginsL lay, Pirjeus on the right, 
And Corinth on the left; I lay reclined 
Along the prow, and saw all these unite 395 

In ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight; 



64 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

XLV 

For Time hath not rebuilt them, but upreared 
Barbaric dwelHngs on their shattered site, 
Which only make more mourned and more endeared 
The few last rays of their far-scattered light, 4oo 

And the crushed relics of their vanished might. 
The Roman saw these tombs in his own age, 
These sepulchres of cities, which excite 
Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page 
The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pilgrimage. 405 

XLVI 

That page is now before me, and on mine 
His country's ruin added to the mass 
Of perished states he mourned in their decline, 
And I, in desolation: all that was 

Of then destruction is; and now, alas! 4io 

Rome — Rome imperial, bows her to the storm. 
In the same dust and blackness, and we pass 
The skeleton of her Titanic form, 
Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm. 

XLVII 

Yet, Italy! through every other land 415 

Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side ; 
Mother of Arts! as once of Arms; thy hand 
Was then our guardian, and is still our guide; 
Parent of our Religion! whom the wide 
Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven! 420 

Europe, repentant of her parricide. 
Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven. 
Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven. 



ClIILDE HAROLD (io 

XLVIII 

But Arno wins us to the fair wliite walls, 
Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps 425 

A softer feeling for her fairy halls. 
Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps 
Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps 
To laughing life, with her redundant horn. 
Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps, 430 

Was modern Luxury of Commerce born, 
And buried Learning rose, redeemed to a new morn. 

XLIX 

There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and fills 
The air around with beauty; we inhale 
The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils 435 

Part of its immortality; the veil 
Of heaven is half undrawn; within the pale 
We stand, and in that form and face behold 
What Mind can make, when Nature's self would fail; 
And to the fond idolaters of old 440 

Envy the innate flash which such a soul could mould: 

L 

We gaze and turn away, and know not where. 
Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart 
Reels with its fulness; there — for ever there — 
Chained to the chariot of triumphal Art, 445 

We stand as captives, and would not depart. 
Away! — there need no words, nor terms precise. 
The paltry jargon of the marble mart. 
Where Pedantry gulls Folly — we have eyes: 
IJiood — pulse — and breast, confirm the Dardan Shep- 
herd's prize. 450 



66 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 



LI 



Appearedst thou not to Paris in this guise? 
Or to more deeply blest Anchises ? or, 
In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies 
Before thee thy own vanquished Lord of War? 
And gazing in thy face as toward a star, 455 

Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn. 
Feeding on thy sweet cheek! while thy lips are 
With lava kisses melting while they burn, 
Showered on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from an urn! 

LII 

Glowing, and circumfused in speechless love, 460 

Their full divinity inadequate 
That feeling to express, or to improve, 
The gods become as mortals, and man's fate 
Has moments like their brightest; but the weight 
Of earth recoils upon us, — let it go! 465 

We can recall such visions, and create. 
From what has been, or might be, things which grow 
Into thy statue's form, and look like gods below. 

LII I 

I leave to learned fingers, and wise hands. 
The artist and his ape, to teach and tell 47o 

How well his connoisseurship understands 
The graceful bend, and the voluptuous swell : 
Let these describe the undescribable : 
I would not their vile breath should crisp the stream 
Wherein that image shall forever dwell; 475 

The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream 
That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam. 



CHILD E HAROLD 07 

LIV 

In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie 
Ashes which make it holier, dust which is 
Even in itself an immortality. 480 

Thou»:jh there were nothintr save the past, and this 
The particle of those sublimities 
Which have relapsed to chaos: — here repose 
Angelo's, Alfieri's bones, and his, 

The starry Galileo, with his woes; 485 

Here Machiavelli's earth returned to whence it rose. 

LV 

These are four minds, which, like the elements, 
Might furnish forth creation: — Italy! 
Time, which hath WTonged thee with ten thousand rents 
Of thine imperial garment, shall deny 490 

And hath denied, to every other sky. 
Spirits which soar from ruin: — thy decay 
Is still impregnate with divinity, 
Which gilds it with revivifying ray; 
Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. 495 

LVI 

But where repose the all Etruscan three — 
Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they. 
The Bard of Prose, creative spirit! he 
Of the Hundred Tales of love — where did they lay 
Their bones, distinguished from our common clay soo 

In death as life? Are they resolved to dust. 
And have their country's marbles nought to say? 
Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust? 
Did thev not to her breast their filial earth entrust ? 



68 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

LVII 

Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar, 505 

Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore; 
Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, 
Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore 
Their children's children would in vain adore 
With the remorse of ages; and the crown 5io 

Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore, 
Upon a far and foreign soil had grown, 
His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled — not thine own. 

LVIII 

Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeathed 
His dust, — and lies it not her Great among, 5i5 

With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed 
O'er him w^ho formed the Tuscan's siren tongue ? 
That music in itself, whose sounds are song, 
The poetry of speech? No; — even his tomb 
Uptorn, must bear the hysena bigot's wrong, 520 

No more amidst the meaner dead find room, 
Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for whom ! 

LIX 

And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust; 
Yet for this want more noted, as of yore 
The Caesar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust, 525 

Did but of Rome's best son remind her more 
Happier Ravenna! on thy hoary shore, 
Fortress of falling empire! honored sleeps 
The immortal exile; — Arqua, too, her store 
Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps, 530 

While Florence vainly begs her banished dead, and weeps. 



CHILDE HAROLD 69 

LX 

What is her pyramid of precious stones? 
Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues 
Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones 
Of merchant-dukes ? the momentary dews 535 

Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse 
Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead, 
Whose names are mausoleums of the Muse, 
Are gently pressed with far more reverent tread 
Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely head. 54o 

LXI 

There be more things to greet the heart and eyes 
In Arno's dome of Art's most princely shrine. 
Where Sculpture with her rainbow sister vies; 
There be more mai-vels yet — but not for mine; 
For I have been accustomed to entwine 545 

My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields. 
Than Art in galleries; though a work divine 
Calls for my spirit's homage, yet it yields 
Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields 

LXII 

Is of another temper, and I roam 550 

By Thrasimene's lake, in the defiles 
Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home; 
For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles 
Come back before me, as his skill beguiles 
The host between the mountains and the shore, 555 

Where Courage falls in her despairing files, 
And torrents, swoll'n to rivers with their gore, 
Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scattered o'er. 



70 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

LXIII 

Like to a forest felled by mountain winds; 
And such the storm of battle on this day, 560 

And such the frenzy, whose convulsion blinds 
To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray, 
An earthquake reeled unheededly away! 
None felt stern Nature rocking at his feet, 
And yawning forth a grave for those who lay 565 

Upon their bucklers for a winding-sheet; 
Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet! 

LXIV 

The Earth to them was as a rolling bark 
Which bore them to Eternity; they saw 
The Ocean round, but had no time to mark 570 

The motions of their vessel; Nature's law, 
In them suspended, recked not of the awe 
Which reigns when mountains tremble, and the birds 
Plunge in the clouds for refuge, and withdraw 
From their down-toppling nests; and bellowing herds 575 
Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's dread hath no 
words. 

LXV 

Far other scene is Thrasimene now; 
Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain 
Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough; 
Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain 580 

Lay where their roots are; but a brook hath ta'en — 
A little rill of scanty stream and bed — 
A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain; 
And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead 
Made the earth wet, and turned the unwilling waters red. 585 



CHILDE HAROLD 71 

LXVI 

But thou, Clitumnus! in thy sweetest wave 
Of the most living crystal that was e'er 
The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave 
Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear 
Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer 590 

Grazes; the purest god of gentle waters! 
And most serene of aspect, and most clear; 
Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters, — 
A mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest daughters! 

LXVII 

And on thy happy shore a temple still, 595 

Of small and delicate proportion, keeps. 
Upon a mild declivity of hill. 
Its memory of thee; beneath it sweeps 
Thy current's calmness; oft from out it leaps 
The finny darter with the glittering scales, 600 

Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps; 
While, chance, some scattered water-lily sails 
Down where the shallower wave still tells its bubbling 
tales. 

LXVIII 

Pass not unblest the Genius of the place! 
If through the air a zephyr more serene 605 

Win to the brow, 'tis his; and if ye trace 
Along this margin a more eloquent green. 
If on the heart the freshness of the scene 
Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust 
Of weary life a moment lave it clean 610 

With Nature's baptism, — 'tis to him ye must 
Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust. 



72 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

LXIX 

The roar of waters! — from the headlong height 
VeHno cleaves the wave- worn precipice; 
The fall of waters! rapid as the light 615 

The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss; 
The hell of waters! where they howl and hiss. 
And boil in endless torture; while the sweat 
Of their great agony, wrung out from this 
Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet 620 

That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set, 

LXX 

And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again , 
Returns in an unceasing shower, which round. 
With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain. 
Is an eternal April to the ground, 625 

Making it all one emerald; how profound 
The gulf! and how the giant element 
From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound. 
Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent 
With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent 630 

LXXI 

To the broad column which rolls on, and shows 
More like the fountain of an infant sea 
Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes 
Of a new world, than only thus to be 
Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly, 635 

With many windings through the vale: — Look back! 
Lo! where it comes like an eternity, 
As if to sweep down all things in its track. 
Charming the eye with dread, — a matchless cataract. 



CHILDE HAROLD 73 

LXXII 

Horribly beautiful! but on the verge, 640 

From side to side, beneath the glittering morn, 
An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge, 
Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, imworn 
Its steady dyes, while all around is torn 
By the distracted waters, bears serene 645 

Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn: 
Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene, 
Love watching Madness with unalterable mien. 

LXXIII 

Once more upon the woody Apennine, 
The infant Alps, which — had I not before 650 

Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine 
Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar 
The thundering lauwine — might be worshipped more; 
But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear 
Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar 655 

Glaciers of bleak Mount Blanc both far and near. 
And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear, 

LXXIV 

The Acroceraunian mountains of old name; 
And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly 
Like spirits of the spot, as 'twere for fame, 660 

For still they soared unutterably high: 
I've looked on Ida with a Trojan's eye; 
Athos, Olympus, .^tna. Atlas, made 
These hills seem things of lesser dignity. 
All, save the lone Soracte's height displayed, 665 

Not now in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's aid 



74 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

LXXV 

For our remembrance, and from out the plain 
Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break, 
And on the curl hangs pausing: not in vain 
May he, who will, his recollections rake, 670 

And quote in classic raptures, and awake 
The hills with Latin echoes; I abhorred 
Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake. 
The drilled dull lesson, forced down word by word 
In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record 675 

LXXVI 

Aught that recalls the daily drug which turned 
My sickening memory; and, though Time hath taught 
My mind to meditate what then it learned, 
Yet such the fixed inveteracy wrought 
By the impatience of my early thought, 680 

That, with the freshness wearing out before 
My mind could relish what it might have sought. 
If free to choose, I cannot now restore 
Its health; but what it then detested, still abhor. 

LXXVII 

Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, 685 

Not for thy faults, but mine; it is a curse 
To understand, not feel thy lyric flow. 
To comprehend, but never love thy verse. 
Although no deeper Moralist rehearse 
Our little life, nor Bard prescribe his art, 690 

Nor livelier Satirist the conscience pierce. 
Awakening without wounding the touched heart. 
Yet fare thee well — upon Soracte's ridge we part. 



CHILDE HAROLD 75 

LXXVIII 

O Rome! my country! city of the soul! 
The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, 696 

Lone mother of dead empires! and control 
In tlieir shut breasts their petty misery. 
What are our woes and sufferance? Come and see 
The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way 
O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, Ye! 700 

Whose agonies are evils of a day — 
A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. 

LXXIX 

The Niobe of nations! there she stands. 
Childless and crownless in her voiceless woe; 
An empty urn within her withered hands, 705 

Whose holy dust was scattered long ago; 
The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now; 
The very sepulchres lie tenantless 
Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flow, 
Old Tiber! through a marbled wilderness? 7io 

Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress. 

LXXX 

The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire, 
Have dealt upon the seven-hilled city's pride: 
■ She saw her glories star by star expire. 
And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride, 715 

Where the car climbed the Capitol; far and wide 
Temple and tower went down, nor left a site: — 
Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void. 
O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, 
And say, " Here was, or is," where all is doubly night ? 720 



76 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

LXXXI 

The double night of ages, and of her. 
Night's daughter. Ignorance, hath wrapt, and wrap 
All round us; we but feel our way to err: 
The ocean hath its chart, the stars their map, 
And Knowledge spreads them on her ample lap; 725 

But Rome is as the desert, where we steer 
Stumbling o'er recollections: now we clap 
Our hands, and cry "Eureka!" it is clear — 
When but some false mirage of ruin rises near. 

LXXXII 

Alas, the lofty city! and alas, 730 

The trebly hundred triumphs! and the day 
When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass 
The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away! 
Alas, for Tully's voice, and Vergil's lay. 
And Livy's pictured page! — but these shall be 735 

Her resurrection; all beside — decay. 
Alas, for Earth, for never shall we see 
That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free ! 

LXXXIII 

O thou, whose chariot rolled on Fortune's wheel. 
Triumphant Sylla! Thou, who didst subdue 74o 

Thy country's foes ere thou wouldst pause to feel 
The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due 
Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew 
O'er prostrate Asia; — thou, who with thy frown 
Annihilated senates — Roman, too, 745 

With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down 
With an atoning smile a more than earthly crown — 



CIllLDK IIAROI.I) 77 

LXXXIV 

The dictatorial wreath,— couklst thou divine 
To what would one day dwindle that which made 
Thee more than mortal ? and that so supine 750 

By aught than Romans Rome should thus be laid ? 
She who was named Eternal, and arrayed 
Her warriors but to conquer— she who veiled 
Earth with her haughty shadow, and displayed, 
Until the o'er-canopied horizon failed, 755 

Her rushing wings— Oh! she who was Almighty hailed! 

LXXXV 

Sylla was first of victors; but our own, 
The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell !~he 
Too swept off senates while he hewxd the throne 
Down to a block— immortal rebel ! See 760 

^Yhat crimes it cost to be a moment free 
And famous through all ages! but beneath 
His fate the moral lurks of destiny; 
His day of double victory and death 
Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, yield his 

breath. "^^^ 

LXXXVI 

The third of the same moon whose former course 
Had all but crowned him, on the self-same day 
Deposed him gently from his throne of force. 
And laid him with the earth's preceding clay. 
And showed not Fortune thus how fame and swa}', 770 
And all we deem delightful, and consume 
Our souls to compass through each arduous way. 
Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb? 
Were they but so in man's, how different were his doom! 



78 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

LXXXVII 

And thou, dread statue! yet existent In 775 

The austerest form of naked majesty! 
Thou who beheldest, *mid the assassins' din, 
At thy bathed base the bloody Caesar lie. 
Folding his robe in dying dignity. 

An offering to thine altar from the queen 780 

Of gods and men, great Nemesis! did he die. 
And thou, too, perish, Pompey? have ye been 
Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene? 

LXXXVIII 

And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome I 
She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart 785 

The milk of conquest yet within the dome 
Where, as a monument of antique art. 
Thou standest: — Mother of the mighty heart. 
Which the great founder sucked from thy wild teat, 
Scorched by the Roman Jove's ethereal dart, 790 

And thy limbs black with lightning — dost thou yet 
Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge forget ? 

LXXXIX 

Thou dost; — but all thy foster-babes are dead — 
The men of iron; and the world hath reared 
Cities from out their sepulchres: men bled 795 

In imitation of the things they feared. 
And fought and conquered, and the same course steered, 
At apish distance; but as yet none have. 
Nor could, the same supremacy have neared. 
Save one vain man, who is not in the grave, soo 

But, vanquished by himself, to his own slaves a slave — 



ClULDE HAROLD 79 

xc 

The fool of false dominion — and a kind 
Of bastard Cjpsar, following him of old 
With steps unequal; for the Roman's mind 
Was modelled in a less terrestrial mould, 805 

With passions fiereer, yet a judgment cold, 
And an immortal instinct which redeemed 
The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold, 
Alcides with a distaff now he seemed 
At Cleopatra's feet, — and now himself he beamed, 8io 

XCI 

And came — and saw — and conquered! But the man 
Who would have tamed his eagles down to flee. 
Like a trained falcon, in the Gallic van, 
Which he, in sooth, long 'led to victory, 
With a deaf heart, w^hich never seemed to be 8i5 

A listener to itself, was strangely framed; 
With but one weakest w^eakness — vanity, 
Coquettish in ambition, — still he aimed — 
At what ? can he avouch, — or answ^er what he claimed ? 

XCII 

And would be all or nothing — nor could wait 82o 

For the sure grave to level him; few years 
Had fixed him with the Caesars in his fate. 
On whom we tread: For this the conqueror rears 
The arch of triumph! and for this the tears 
And blood of earth flow on as they have flowed, 825 

An universal deluge, which appears 
Without an ark for wretched man's abode, 
And ebbs but to reflow! — Renew thy rainbow, God I 



80 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

XCIII 

What from this barren being do we reap? 
Our senses narrow, and our reason frail, 830 

Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep, 
And all things weighed in custom's falsest scale; 
Opinion an omnipotence, — whose veil 
Mantles the earth with darkness, until right 
And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale 835 

Lest their own judgments should become too bright, 
And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have too 
much light. 

XCIV 

And thus they plod in sluggish misery, 
Rotting from sire to son, and age to age. 
Proud of their trampled nature, and so die, 84o 

Bequeathing their hereditary rage 
To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage 
War for their chains, and rather than be free. 
Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage 
Within the same arena where they see 845 

Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree. 

xcv 
I speak not of men's creeds — they rest between 
Man and his Maker — but of things allowed. 
Averred, and known, — and daily, hourly seen — 
The yoke that is upon us doubly bowed, 850 

And the intent of tyranny avowed. 
The edict of Earth's rulers, who are grown 
The apes of him who humbled once the proud. 
And shook them from their slumbers on the throne; 
Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done. 855 



CHILDK HAROLD 81 

XCVI 

Can tyrants but by tyrants conquered be, 
And Freedom find no champion and no child 
Such as Columbia saw arise when she 
Sprung forth a Pallas, armed and undefiled? 
Or must such minds be nourished in the wild, 8G0 

Deep in the un pruned forest, 'midst the roar 
Of cataracts, where nursing nature smiled 
On infant Washington ? Has Earth no more 
Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore ? 

XCVII 

But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime, 865 

And fatal have her Saturnalia been 
To Freedom's cause, in every age and clime; 
Because the deadly days which we have seen. 
And vile Ambition, that built up between 
Man and his hopes an adamantine wall, 870 

And tlie base pageant last upon the scene. 
Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall 
Which nips life's tree, and dooms man's worst — his 
second fall. 

XCVII I 

Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying, 
Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind; 875 

Thy trumpet-voice, though broken now and dying. 
The loudest still the tempest leaves behind; 
Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind. 
Chopped by the axe, looks rough and little worth. 
But the sap lasts, — and still the seed we find 880 

Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North; 
So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth. 



82 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

XCIX 

There is a stern round tower of other days. 
Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone. 
Such as an army's baffled strength delays, 885 

Standing with half its battlements alone, 
And with two thousand years of ivy grown. 
The garland of eternity, where wave 
The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown; — 
What was this tower of strength ? within its cave 890 

What treasure lay so locked, so hid ? — A woman's grave. 



But who was she, the lady of the dead. 
Tombed in a palace? Was she chaste and fair? 
Worthy a king's — or more — a Roman's bed ? 
What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear? 895 

What daughter of her beauties was the heir? 
How lived — how loved — how died she? Was she not 
So honored — and conspicuously there. 
Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, 
Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot? 900 

CI 

Was she as those who love their lords, or they 
Who love the lords of others? such have been 
Even in the olden time, Rome's annals say. 
Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien. 
Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen, 905 

Profuse of joy — or 'gainst it did she war, 
Inveterate in virtue? Did she lean 
To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar 
Love from amongst her griefs ? — for such the affections are. 



nill.DK IIAUOM) 813 

('II 

Perchance she died in youth: it may be, bowed oio 

With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb 
I'll at weighed upon her gentle dust, a cloud 
Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom 
In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom 
Heaven gives its favorites — early death; yet shed 91 r, 

A sunset charm around her, and illume 
With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, 
Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like red. 

cm 

Perchance she died in age — surviving all. 
Charms, kindred, children — with the silver gray 920 

On her long tresses, which might yet recall, 
It may be, still a something of the day 
When they were braided, and their proud array 
And lovely form were envied, praised and eyed 
By Rome — But whither would Conjecture stray ? 925 

Thus much alone we know — Metella died. 
The wealthiest Roman's wife: Behold his love or pride! 

CIV 

I know not why — but standing thus by thee 
It seems as if I had thine inmate known. 
Thou tomb! and other days come back on me 930 

With recollected music, though the tone 
Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan 
Of dying thunder on the distant wind; 
Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone 
Till I had bodied forth the heated mind 935 

Forms from the floating wreck which Ruin leaves behind; 



84 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

cv 

And from the planks, far shattered o'er the rocks. 
Built me a little bark of hope, once more 
To battle with the ocean and the shocks 
Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar 940 

Which rushes on the solitary shore 
Where all lies foundered that was ever dear: 
But could I gather from the wave-worn store 
Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer? 
There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here. 945 

cvi 

Then let the winds howl on! their harmony 
Shall henceforth be my music, and the night 
The sound shall temper with the owlets' cry. 
As I now hear them, in the fading light 
Dim o'er the bird of darkness' native site, 950 

Answer each other on the Palatine, 
With their large eyes, all glistening gray and bright, 
And sailing pinions. — Upon such a shrine 
What are our petty griefs ? — let me not number mine. 

CVII 

Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown 955 

Matted and massed together, hillocks heaped 
On what were chambers, arch crushed, column strown 
In fragments, choked up vaults and frescoes steeped 
In subterranean damps, where the owl peeped. 
Deeming it midnight: — ^Temples, baths, or halls? 960 

Pronounce who can; for all that Learning reaped 
From her research hath been, that these are walls — 
Behold the Imperial Mount! 'tis thus the mighty falls. 



CHILDE HAROLD 85 

CVIII 

There is the moral of all human tales; 

'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, 9C5 

First Freedom, and then Glory — when that fails. 

Wealth, vice, corruption, — barbarism at last. 

And History, with all her volumes vast. 

Hath but one page, — 'tis better written here. 

Where gorgeous Tyranny hath thus amassed 970 

All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear. 

Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask — Away with words I 
draw near, 

cix 
Admire, exult, despise, laugh, weep — for here 
There is such matter for all feelings: — Man I 
Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear, 975 

Age and realms are crowded in this span. 
This mountain, whose obliterated plan 
The pyramid of empires pinnacled. 
Of Glory's gewgaws shining in the van 
Till the sun's rays with added flame were filled! 980 

Where are its golden roofs ? where those who dared to build ? 

ex 

Tully was not so eloquent as thou. 
Thou nameless column with the buried basel 
What are the laurels of the Caesar's brow? 
Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place. 985 

Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face, 
Titus or Trajan's? No— 'tis that of Time: 
Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace, 
Scoffing; and apostolic statues climb 
To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime, 990 



86 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

CXI 

Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome, 
And looking to the stars: they had contained 
A spirit which with these would find a home. 
The last of those who o'er the whole earth reigned. 
The Roman globe, for after none sustained, 995 

But yielded back his conquests: — he was more 
Than a mere Alexander, and unstained 
With household blood and wine, serenely wore 
His sovereign virtues — still we Trajan's name adore. 

CXII 

Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place looo 

Where Rome embraced her heroes ? where the steep 
Tarpeian, fittest goal of Treason's race, 
The promontory whence the Traitor's Leap 
Cured all ambition? Did the Conquerors heap 
Their spoils here? Yes; and in yon field below, 1005 
A thousand years of silenced factions sleep — 
The Forum, where the immortal accents glow. 
And still the eloquent air breathes — burns with Cicero! 

CXIII 

The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood; 
Here a proud people's passions were exhaled, 1010 

From the first hour of empire in the bud 
To that when further worlds to conquer failed; 
But long before had Freedom's face been veiled. 
And Anarchy assumed her attributes; 
Till every lawless soldier who assailed ioi5 

Trod on the trembling senate's slavish mutes. 
Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes. 



CHILDE HAROLD 87 

CXIV 

Then turn we to lier latest tribune's name, 
From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee, 
Redeemer of dark centuries of shame — 1020 

The friend of Petrarch — hope of Italy — 
Rienzi! last of Romans! While the tree 
Of freedom's withered trunk puts forth a leaf, 
Even for thy tomb a garland let it be — 
The forum's champion, and the people's chief — 1025 

Her new-born Numa thou — with reign, alas! too brief. 

cxv 

Egeria! sweet creation of some heart 
Which found no mortal resting-place so fair 
As thine ideal breast; whate'er thou art 
Or wert, — a young Aurora of the air, 1030 

The nympholepsy of some fond despair; 
Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth, 
W^ho found a more than common votary there 
Too much adoring; whatsoe'er thy birth. 
Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth. 1035 

cxvi 

The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled 
With thine Elysian water-drops; the face 
Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years unwrinkled, 
Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place. 
Whose green, wild margin now no more erase 1040 

Art's works; nor must the delicate waters sleep. 
Prisoned in marble, bubbling from the base 
Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap 
The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy creep, 



88 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

CXVII 

Fantastically tangled: the green hills 1045 

Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass 
The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills 
Of summer-birds sing welcome as ye pass; 
Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class. 
Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes 1050 

Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass; 
The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes. 
Kissed by the breath of heaven, seems colored by its skies. 

CXVIII 

Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, 
Egeria! thy all heavenly bosom beating 1055 

For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover; 
The purple Midnight veiled that mystic meeting 
With her most starry canopy, and seating 
Thyself by thine adorer, what befell ? 
This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting 106O 

Of an enamoured Goddess, and the cell 
Haunted by holy Love — the earliest oracle! 

cxix 

And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying, 
Blend a celestial with a human heart; 
And Love, which dies as it was born, in sighing, 1065 

Share with immortal transports? could thine art 
Make them indeed immortal, and impart 
The purity of heaven to earthly joys. 
Expel the venom and not blunt the dart — 
The dull satiety which all destroys — 1070 

And root from out the soul the deadly weed which cloys ? 



CHILDE HAROLD 89 

(XX 

Alas! our young affections run to waste. 
Or water but the desert; whence arise 
But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste. 
Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyes, 1075 

Flowers whose wild odors breathe but agonies. 
And trees whose gums are poison; such the plants 
Which spring beneath her steps as Passion flies 
O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants 
For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants. loso 

CXXT 

Oh Love! no habitant of earth thou art — 
An unseen seraph, we believe in thee, — 
A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart. 
But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see. 
The naked eye, thy form, as it should be; 1085 

The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven. 
Even with its own desiring fantasy, 
x\nd to a thought such shape and image given, 
As haunts the unquenched soul — parched — wearied — 
wrung — and riven. 

CXXII 

Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, i09o 

And fevers into false creation: — where. 
Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized ? 
In him alone. Can Nature show so fair? 
Where are the charms and virtues which we dare 
Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men, 1095 

The unreached Paradise of our despair. 
Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen, 
And overpowers the page where it would bloom again ? 



90 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

CXXIII 

Who loves, raves — 'tis youth's frenzy — but the cure 
Is bitterer still, as charm by charm unwinds, iioo 

Which robed our idols, and we see too sure 
Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind's 
Ideal shape of such; yet still it binds 
The fatal spell, and still it draws us on. 
Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown winds; iios 
The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun, 
Seems ever near the prize, — wealthiest when most undone. 

cxxiv 
We wither from our youth, we gasp away — 
Sick — sick; unfound the boon — unslaked the thirst. 
Though to the last, in verge of our decay, mo 

Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first — 
But all too late, — so are we doubly curst. 
Love, fame, ambition, avarice — 'tis the same, 
Each idle — and all ill — and none the worst — 
For all are meteors with a different name, iii5 

And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame. 

cxxv 
Few — none — find what they love or could have loved. 
Though accident, blind contact, and the strong 
Necessity of loving, have removed 

Antipathies — but to recur, ere long, 1120 

Envenomed with irrevocable wrong; 
And Circumstance, that unspiritual god 
And miscreator, makes and helps along 
Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod. 
Whose touch turns Hope to dust, — the dust we all 

have trod. 1125 



CllILDK HAROLD J)l 

(XXVI 

Our life is a false nature — 'tis not in 
The harmony of thinf]js, — this hard decree, 
This uneradicable taint of sin, 
This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree, 
Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be ii;i(» 
The skies which rain their pla^ijues on men like dew — 
Disease, death, bondage — all the woes we see — 
And worse, the woes we see not — which throb through 
The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new. 

cxxvii 

Yet let us ponder boldly — 'tis a base ii33 

Abandonment of reason to resign 
Our right of thought — our last and only place 
Of refuge; this, at least, shall still be mine: 
Though from our birth the faculty divine 
Is chained and tortured— cabined, cribbed, confined, iHo 
And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine 
Too brightly on the unpreparM mind, 
The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the blind. 

CXXVIII 

Arches on arches! as it w^ere that Rome, 
Collecting the chief trophies of her line, ihs 

Would build up all her triumphs in one dome. 
Her Coliseum stands; the moonbeams shine 
As 'twere its natural torches, for divine 
Should be the light which streams here, to illume 
This long-explored but still exhausdess mine Uoo 

Of contemplation ; and the azure gloom 
Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume 



92 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

CXXIX 

Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven, 
Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument, 
And shadows forth its glory. There is given 1155 

Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent, 
A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant 
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power 
And magic in the ruined battlement. 

For which the palace of the present hour 116O 

Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower. 

cxxx 

Oh, Time! the beautifier of the dead, 
Adorner of the ruin, comforter 
And only healer when the heart hath bled — 
Time! the corrector where our judgments err, 1165 

The test of truth, love, — sole philosopher. 
For all beside are sophists, from thy thrift. 
Which never loses though it doth defer — 
Time, the avenger! unto thee I lift 
My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift: ii70 

cxxxi 

Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine 
And temple more divinely desolate, 
Among thy mightier offerings here are mine. 
Ruins of years — though few, yet full of fate: — 
If thou hast ever seen me too elate, 1175 

Hear me not; but if calmly I have borne 
Good, and reserved my pride against the hate 
Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn 
This iron in my soul in vain — shall they not mourn? 



CHILDE HAROLD 9:3 

CXXXII 

And thou, who never yet of human wrong 118O 

Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis! 
Here, where the ancient paid thee homage long — 
Thou, who didst call the Furies from the abyss, 
And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss 
For that unnatural retribution — just, 1185 

Had it but been from hands less near — in this 
Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust! 
Dost thou not hear my heart ? — Awake ! thou shalt, and 
must. 

CXXXIII 

It is not that I may not have incurred 
For my ancestral faults or mine the wound ii90 

I bleed withal, and had it been conferred 
With a just weapon, it had flowed unbound, 
But now my blood shall not sink in the ground; 
To thee I do devote it — thou shalt take 
The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and found, 1195 
Which if / have not taken for the sake — 
But let that pass — I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake. 

cxxxiv 
And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that now 
I shrink from what is suffered: let him speak 
Who hath beheld decline upon my brow, 1200 

Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak; 
But in this page a record will I seek. 
Not in the air shall these my words disperse. 
Though I be ashes; a far hour shall wTeak 
The deep prophetic fulness of this verse, 1205 

And pile on human heads the mountain of my curse! 



94 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

cxxxv 

That curse shall be Forgiveness. — Have I not — 
Hear me, my mother Earth! behold it, Heaven! — 
Have I not had to wrestle with my lot? 
Have I not suffered things to be forgiven? 1210 

Have I not had my brain seared, my heart riven, 
Hopes sapped, name blighted. Life's life lied away? 
And only not to desperation driven. 
Because not altogether of such clay 
As rots into the souls of those whom I survey. 1215 

CXXXVI 

From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy 
Have I not seen what human things could do? 
From the loud roar of foaming calumny 
To the small whisper of the as paltry few. 
And subtler venom of the reptile crew, 1220 

The Janus glance of whose significant eye. 
Learning to lie with silence, would seem true. 
And without utterance, save the shrug or sigh. 
Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy. 

CXXXVII 

But I have lived, and have not lived in vain: 1225 

My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire. 
And my frame perish even in conquering pain; 
But there is that within me which shall tire 
Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire; 
Something unearthly, which they deem not of, 1230 

Like the remembered tone of a mute lyre. 
Shall on their softened spirits sink, and move 
In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love. 



CIIILDE HAROLD 95 

CXXXVIII 

The seal is set. — Now welcome, thou dread power! 
Nameless, yet thus onmipotent, which here 1235 

Walk'st in the shadow of the midnight hour 
With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear; 
Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear 
Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene 
Derives from these a sense so deep and clear 1240 

That we become a part of what has been, 
And grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen. 

CXXXIX 

And here the buzz of eager nations ran. 
In murmured pity, or loud-roared applause. 
As man was slaughtered by his fellow-man. 1245 

And wherefore slaughtered? wherefore, but because 
Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws, 
And the imperial pleasure. — Wherefore not? 
What matters where we fall to fill the maws 
Of worms — on battle-plains or listed spot? 1250 

Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot. 

CXL 

I see before me the Gladiator lie: 
He leans upon his hand — his manly brow 
Consents to death, but conquers agony. 
And his drooped head sinks gradually low — 1255 

And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow 
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, 
Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now 
The arena swims around him — he is gone, 
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch 

who won. 1260 



96 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

CXLI 

He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes 
Were with his heart, and that was far away; 
He recked not of the hfe he lost nor prize. 
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay. 
There were his young barbarians all at play, 1265 

There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire. 
Butchered to make a Roman holiday — 
All this rushed with his blood — Shall he expire. 
And unavenged ? — Arise ! ye Goths, and glut your ire. 

CXLII 

But here, where Murder breathed her bloody steam; 1270 
And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways. 
And roared or murmured like a mountain stream 
Dashing or winding as its torrent strays; 
Here, where the Roman million's blame or praise 
Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd, 1275 

My voice sounds much — and fall the stars' faint rays 
On the arena void — seats crushed — walls bowed — 
And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely loud. 

CXLIII 

A ruin — ^yet what ruin! from its mass 
Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been reared; 128O 

Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass. 
And marvel where the spoil could have appeared. 
Hath it indeed been plundered, or but cleared ? 
Alas I developed, opens the decay. 

When the colossal fabric's form is neared: 1285 

It will not bear the brightness of the day. 
Which streams too much on all years, man, have reft 
away. 



CHILDE HAROLD 97 

CXLIV 

But when the rising moon begins to climb 
Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there; 
When the stars twinkle through the loops of time, 1290 
And the low night-breeze waves along the air 
The garland-forest, which the gray walls wear. 
Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's head; 
When the light shines serene, but doth not glare, 
Then in this magic circle raise the dead: 1295 

Heroes have trod this spot — 'tis on their dust ye tread. 

CXLV 

"While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand; 

When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall; 

And when Rome falls — the World." From our own 

land 
Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty wall isoo 

In Saxon times, which we are wont to call 
Ancient; and these three mortal things are still 
On their foundations, and unaltered all; 
Rome and her Ruin past Redemption's skill. 
The World, the same wide den — of thieves, or what 

ye will. 1305 

CXLVI 

Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime — 

Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods. 

From Jove to Jesus — spread and blest by time; 

Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods 

Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man plods t3io 

His way through thorns to ashes — glorious dome! 

Shalt thou not last? — Time's scythe and tyrants' rods 



98 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

Shiver upon thee — sanctuary and home 
Of art and piety — Pantheon! — pride of Rome! 

CXLVII 

Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts! 1315 

Despoiled yet perfect, with thy circle spreads 
A holiness appealing to all hearts — 
To art a model; and to him who treads 
Rome for the sake of ages, Glory sheds 
Her light through thy sole aperture; to those 1320 

Who worship, here are altars for their beads; 
And they who feel for genius may repose 
Their eyes on honored forms, whose busts around them 
close. 

CXLVIII 

There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light 
What do I gaze on? Nothing: Look again! 1325 

Two forms are slowly shadowed on my sight — 
Two insulated phantoms of the brain: 
It is not so; I see them full and plain — 
An old man, and a female young and fair. 
Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein 1330 

The blood is nectar: — but what doth she there. 
With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and bare ? 

CXLIX 

Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life. 

Where on the heart and from the heart we took 

Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife, 1335 

Blest into mother, in the innocent look, 

Or even the piping cry of lips that brook 

No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives 



CHILDE HAROLD 99 

Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook 
She sees her Httle bud put forth its leaves — 1340 

What may the fruit be yet? — I know not — Cain was 
Eve's. 

CL 

But here youth offers to old age the food, 
The milk of his own gift: — it is her sire 
To whom she renders back the debt of blood 
Born with her birth. No; he shall not expire 1345 

While in those warm and lovely veins the fire 
Of health and holy feeling can provide 
Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises higher 
Than Egypt's river: — from that gentle side 
Drink, drink and live, old man! Heaven's realm holds 

no such tide. i35o 

CLI 

The starry fable of the milky way 
Has not thy story's purity; it is 
A constellation of a sweeter ray. 
And sacred Nature triumphs more in this 
Reverse of her decree than in the abyss 1355 

Where sparkle distant worlds: Oh, holiest nurse! 
No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss 
To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source 
With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe. 

CLII 

Turn to the Mole which Hadrian reared on high, i360 

Imperial mimic of old Egypt's piles, 

Colossal copyist of deformity, 

Whose travelled fantasv from the far Nile's 



100 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

Enormous model, doomed the artist's toils 
To build for giants, and for his vain earth, 1365 

His shrunken ashes, raise this dome: How smiles 
The gazer's eye with philosophic mirth. 
To view the huge design which sprung from such a birth I 

CLIII 

But lo! the dome — the vast and wondrous dome. 
To which Diana's marvel was a cell — 1370 

Christ's mighty shrine above his martyr's tomb! 
I have beheld the Ephesian's miracle — 
Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell 
The hyaena and the jackal in their shade; 
I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell 1375 

Their glittering mass i' the sun, and have sur\^eyed 
Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem prayed; 

CLIV 

But thou, of temples old, or altars new, 
Standest alone — with nothing like to thee — 
Worthiest of God, the holy and the true. 1380 

Since Zion's desolation, when that He 
Forsook His former city, what could be, 
Of earthly structures, in His honor piled, 
Of a sublimer aspect ? Majesty, 

Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty, all are aisled, i385 
In this eternal ark of worship undefiled. 

CLV 

Enter: its grandeur overwhelms thee not; 

And why? it is not lessened; but thy mind. 

Expanded by the genius of the spot, 

Has grown colossal, and can only find 1390 



CHILDE HAROLD 101 

A fit abode wherein appear enshrined 
Thy hopes of immortaHty; and thou 
Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined, 
See thy God face to face as thou dost now 
His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by His brow. 1395 

CLVI 

Thou movest — but increasing with the advance. 
Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise. 
Deceived by its gigantic elegance; 
Vastness which grows — but grows to harmonize — 
All musical in its immensities; i400 

Rich marbles — richer painting — shrines where flame 
The lamps of gold — and haughty dome which vies 
In air with Earth's chief structures, though their frame 
Sits on the firm-set ground — and this the clouds must claim. 

CLVII 

Thou seest not all: but piecemeal thou must break, i405 
To separate contemplation, the great whole; 
And as the ocean many bays will make, 
That ask the eye — so here condense thy soul 
To more immediate objects, and control 
Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart i4io 

Its eloquent proportions, and unroll 
In mighty graduations, part by part. 
The glory which at once upon thee did not dart, 

CLVIII 

Not by its fault — but thine: Our outward sense 

Is but of gradual grasp — and as it is i4i5 

That what we have of feeling most intense 

Outstrips our faint expression; even so this 



102 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

Outshining and o'erwhelming edifice 
Fools our fond gaze, and greatest of the great 
Defies at first our Nature's littleness, 1420 

Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate 
Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate. 

CLIX 

Then pause and be enlightened; there is more 
In such a survey than the sating gaze 
Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore 1425 

The worship of the place, or the mere praise 
Of art and its great masters, who could raise 
What former time, nor skill, nor thought could plan; 
The fountain of sublimity displays 

Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of man 1430 
Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions can. 

CLX 

Or, turning to the Vatican, go see 
Laocoon's torture dignifying pain — 
A father's love and mortal's agony 

With an immortal's patience blending: — Vain 1435 

The struggle; vain, against the coiling strain 
And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp, 
The old man's clench; the long envenomed chain 
Rivets the living links, — the enormous asp 
Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp. i440 

CLXI 

Or view the Lord of the unerring bow. 
The God of life, and poesy, and light — 
The Sun in human limbs arrayed, and brow 
All radiant from his triumph in the fight; 



CIIILDi: IIAKOLl) UK\ 

'Vhv shaft hath just Ix'cri shot -the arn»\\ l)ri;x''< ' *-*-''^ 

With an iiniiiortal's vriit^caiur; in his eye 
And nostril beautiful disdain, and nii<i;ht, 
And majesty, flash their full li(:jhtnint;s hy, 
Developint^ in that one (j^lanee the Deity. 

CLXII 

But in his delieate form — a dream of Love, n'o 

Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast 
Longed for a deathless lover from above, 
And maddened in that vision — are ex|)ressed 
All that ideal beauty ever blessed 

The mind with in its most unearthly mood, i4.'»'> 

When each conception was a heavenly finest — 
A ray of immortality — and stood, 
Starlike, aroimd, until they gathered to a (jjod! 

CLXIII 

And if it be Prometheus stole from heaven 
The fire which we endure, it was repaid 1460 

By him to whom the energy was given 
Wiiich this poetic marble hath arrayed 
With an eternal glory — which, if made 
By human hands, is not of human thought; 
And Time himself hath hallowed it, nor laid 146") 

One ringlet in the dust — nor hath it caught 
A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 
'twas wrought. 

CLXIV 

But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song, 
The being who upheld it through the past? 



104 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

Methinks he cometh late and tarries long. 1470 

He is no more — these breathings are his last; 
His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast, 
And he himself as nothing: — if he was 
Aught but a fantasy, and could be classed 
With forms which live and suffer — let that pass — 1475 
His shadow fades away into Destruction's mass, 

CLXV 

Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all 
That we inherit in its mortal shroud. 
And spreads the dim and universal pall 
Through which all things grow phantoms; and the 

cloud 1480 

Between us sinks and all which ever glowed, 
Till Glory's self is twilight, and displays 
A melancholy halo scarce allowed 
To hover on the verge of darkness; rays 
Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze, 1485 

CLXVI 

And send us prying into the abyss. 
To gather what we shall be when the frame 
Shall be resolved to something less than this 
Its wretched essence; and to dream of fame. 
And wipe the dust from off the idle name 1490 

We never more shall hear, — but never more. 
Oh, happier thought! can we be made the same: 
It is enough in sooth that once we bore 
These fardels of the heart — the heart whose sweat was 
gore. 



CHILDE HAROLD 10.5 



CLXVII 



Hark! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, 1495 

A long low distant murmur of dread sound, 
Such as arises when a nation bleeds 
With some deep and immedicable wound; 
Through storm and darkness yawns the rending ground, 
The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief 1^)00 

Seems royal still, though with her head discrowned, 
And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief 
She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief. 

CLXVIII 

Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou? 
Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead ? 1505 

Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low 
Some less majestic, less beloved head? 
In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled, 
The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy. 
Death hushed that pang for ever; with thee fled is 10 

The present happiness and promised joy 
Which filled the imperial isles so full it seemed to cloy. 

CLXIX 

Peasants bring forth in safety. — Can it be, 
O thou that wert so happy, so adored! 
Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee, i5i5 
And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard. 
Her many griefs for One; for she had poured 
Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head 
Beheld her Iris. — Thou, too, lonely lord. 
And desolate consort — vainly wert thou wed! 1620 

The husband of a year! the father of the dead! 



106 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

CLXX 

Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made; 
Thy bridal's fruit is ashes; in the dust 
The fair-haired Daughter of the Isles is laid, 
The love of millions! How we did entrust 1525 

Futurity to her! and, though it must 
Darken above our bones, yet fondly deemed 
Our children should obey her child, and blessed 
Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seemed 
Like star to shepherd's eyes ; 'twas but a meteor beamed. i530 

CLXXI 

Woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps well: 
The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue 
Of hollow counsel, the false oracle. 
Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung 
Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstrung 1535 

Nations have armed in madness, the strange fate 
Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath flung 
Against their blind omnipotence a weight 
Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late, — 

CLXXII 

These might have been her destiny; but no, 1540 

Our hearts deny it: and so young, so fair. 
Good without effort, great without a foe; 
But now a bride and mother — and now there! 
How many ties did that stern moment tear! 
From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's breast 1545 

Is linked the electric chain of that despair. 
Whose shock was an earthquake's, and oppressed 
The land which loved thee so that none could love thee best. 



CHILDE HAROLD 107 

CLXXIII 

Lo, Nemil navelled in the woody hills 
So far, that the uprootino: wind which tears i55o 

The oak from his foundation, and which spills 
The ocean o'er its boundary, and bears 
Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares 
The oval mirror of thy glassy lake; 

And, calm as cherished hate, its surface wears 1555 

A deep cold settled aspect nought can shake. 
All coiled into itself and round, as sleeps the snake. 

CLXXIV 

And near Albano's scarce divided waves 
Shine from a sister valley; — and afar 

The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves 1560 

The Latian coast where sprung the Epic war, 
** Arms and the Man," whose re-ascending star 
Rose o'er an empire; — but beneath thy right 
Tully reposed from Rome; — and where yon bar 
Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight, 1565 

The Sabine farm was tilled, the weary bard's delight. 

CLXXV 

But I forget. — My Pilgrim's shrine is won. 
And he and I must part, — so let it be, — 
His task and mine alike are nearly done; 
Yet once more let us look upon the sea: 1570 

The midland ocean breaks on him and me. 
And from the Alban Mount we now^ behold 
Our friend of youth, that ocean, which when we 
Beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold 
Those waves, we followed on till the dark Euxine rolled i"75 



108 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

CLXXVI 

Upon the blue Symplegades : long years — 
Long, though not very many — since have done 
Their work on both; some suffering and some tears 
Have left us nearly where we had begun: 
Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run, 1580 

We have had our reward — and it is here, — 
That we can yet feel gladdened by the sun. 
And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear 
As if there were no man to trouble what is clear. 

CLXXVII 

Oh! that the Desert were my dwelling-place, 1585 

With one fair Spirit for my minister. 
That I might all forget the humble race. 
And, hating no one, love but only her! 
Ye Elements! — in whose ennobling stir 
I feel myself exalted — can ye not 1590 

Accord me such a being? Do I err 
In deeming such inhabit many a spot? 
Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot. 

CLXXVIIl 

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 1595 

There is society where none intrudes. 
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar; 
I love not Man the less, but Nature more. 
From these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I may be, or have been before, leoo 

To mingle with the Universe, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet can not all conceal. 



CIIILDE HAROLD 109 

CLXXIX 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll! 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; 
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control I605 

Stops with the shore; — upon the watery plain 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own. 
When for a moment, like a drop of rain, 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, I610 

Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined and unknown. 

CLXXX 

His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy fields 
Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise 
And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields 
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, I615 

Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies. 
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray, 
And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies 
His petty hope in some near port or bay, 
And dashest him again to earth — there let him lay. I620 

CLXXXI 

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake. 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals. 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take I625 

Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; 
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake. 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 



no BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

CLXXXII 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — 1630 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they ? 
Thy waters washed them power while they were free, 
And many a tyrant since: their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts: — not so thou, 1635 

Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play — 
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow — 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 

CLXXXIII 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, i64o 

Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm. 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving; — boundless, endless, and sublime — 
The image of Eternity — the throne 

Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime 1645 

The monsters of the deep are made; each zone 
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 

CLXXXIV 

And I have loved thee. Ocean! and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy 1650 

I wantoned with thy breakers — they to me 
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear, 
For I was as it were a child of thee, 

And trusted to thy billows far and near, 1655 

And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. 



CHILDE HAROLD 111 



CLXXXV 



My task is done — my son^ hath ceased — my tliemc 
Has died into an echo; it is fit 
The spell should break of this protracted dream. 
The torch shall be extinguished which hatli lit iggo 

My midnight lam}), and what is writ, is writ — 
Would it were worthier! but I am not now 
That which I have been — and my visions flit 
Ivcss palpably before me — and the glow 
Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low. iggs 

CLXXXVI 

Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been — 
A sound which makes us linger; — yet, — farewell! 
Ye, who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene 
Which is his last, if in your memories dwell 
A thought which once w^as his, if on ye swell igto 

A single recollection, not in vain 
He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop-shell; 
Farewell! with him alone may rest the pain. 
If such there were — with you the moral of his strain. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 

SONNET ON CHILLON 

Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind! 
Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art, 
For there thy habitation is the heart — 

The heart which love of thee alone can bind; 

And when thy sons to fetters are consigned — 5 

To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, 
Their country conquers with their martyrdom, 

And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 

Chillon! thy prison is a holy place. 

And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod, lo 

Until his very steps have left a trace 

Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 
By Bonnivard! — May none those marks efface! 

For they appeal from tyranny to God. 



My hair is gray, but not with years. 
Nor grew it white 
In a single night, 
As men's have grown from sudden fears: 
My limbs are bowed, though not with toil. 

But rusted with a vile repose, 
For they have been a dungeon's spoil, 
And mine has been the fate of those 
112 



THE PRISONER OF ( IIILLON li:; 

To whom the <ij()()(lly earth and air 

Arc banned, and })arred — forhiddcn fare; 10 

But this was for my father's faith 

1 suffered chains and courted death; 

That father perished at the stake 

For tenets he would not forsake; 

And for the same his hneal race 16 

In darkness found a dwelling-place. 

We were seven — who now are one. 

Six in youth, and one in age, 
Finished as they had begun, 

Proud of Persecution's rage; 20 

One in fire, and two in field, 
Their belief with blood have sealed. 
Dying as their father died. 
For the God their foes denied; — 
Three were in a dungeon cast, 25 

Of whom this wreck is left the last. 



There are seven pillars of Gothic mould. 

In Chillon's dungeons deep and old. 

There are seven columns, massy and gray. 

Dim with a dull imprisoned ray, 30 

A sunbeam which hath lost its way. 

And through the crevice and the cleft 

Of the thick wall is fallen and left: 

Creeping o'er the floor so damp. 

Like a marsh's meteor lamp: 36 

And in each pillar there is a ring, 

And in each ring there is a chain; 
lliat iron is a cankering thing. 



114 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

For in these limbs its teeth remain. 
With marks that will not wear away, 40 

Till I have done with this new day. 
Which now is painful to these eyes, 
Which have not seen the sun so rise 
For years — I cannot count them o'er, — 
I lost their long and heavy score 45 

When my last brother drooped and died, 
And I lay living by his side. 

Ill 

They chained us each to a column stone. 

And we were three — yet, each alone; 

We could not move a single pace, 50 

We could not see each other's face. 

But with that pale and livid light 

That made us strangers in our sight: 

And thus together — ^yet apart. 

Fettered in hand, but joined in heart, 55 

'Twas still some solace in the dearth 

Of the pure elements of earth, 

To hearken to each other's speech. 

And each turn comforter to each 

With some new hope, or legend old, 60 

Or song heroically bold; 

But even these at length grew cold. 

Our voices took a dreary tone. 

An echo of the dungeon-stone, 

A grating sound — not full and free 65 

As they of yore were wont to be; 
It might be fancy — but to me 

They never sounded like our own. 



TllK rUlSONKU OF CIIILLON 11. 



IV 

I was the eldest of the three, 

And to uphold and cheer the rest 70 

I ought to do, and did, my best, 
And each did well in his degree. 

The youngest, whom my father loved. 
Because our mother's brow was given 
To him — with eyes as blue as heaven, 75 

For him my soul was sorely moved: 
And truly might it be distressed 
To see such bird in such a nest; 
For he was beautiful as day — 

(When day was beautiful to me so 

As to young eagles, being free) — 

A polar day, which will not see 
A sunset till its summer's gone, 

Its sleepless summer of long light. 
The snow-clad offspring of the sun : 85 

And thus he was as pure and bright. 
And in his natural spirit gay. 
With tears for naught but others* ills. 
And then they flowed like mountain rills. 
Unless he could assuage the woe 9o 

Which he abhorred to view below. 



The other was as pure of mind, 

But formed to combat with his kind; 

Strong in his frame, and of a mood 

W^hich 'gainst the world in war had stood, 95 

And perished in the foremost rank 



116 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

With joy: — but not in chains to pine: 
His spirit withered with their clank, 

I saw it silently decline — 

And so perchance in sooth did mine: lOO 

But yet I forced it on to cheer 
Those relics of a home so dear. 
He was a hunter of the hills, 

Had follow^ed there the deer and wolf; 

To him this dungeon was a gulf, los 

And fettered feet the worst of ills. 



VI 

Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls: 
A thousand feet in depth below 
Its massy waters meet and flow; 
Thus much the fathom-line was sent no 

From Chillon's snow-white battlement, 

Which round about the wave enthralls: 
A double dungeon wall and wave 
Have made — and like a living grave 
Below the surface of the lake ii5 

The dark vault lies wherein we lay, — 
We heard it ripple night and day; 

Sounding o'er our heads it knocked; 
And I have felt the winter's spray 
Wash through the bars when winds were high 120 
And wanton in the happy sky; 

And then the very rock hath rocked. 

And I have felt it shake, unshocked. 
Because I could have smiled to see 
The death that would have set me free. 125 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 117 



VII 

I said my nearer brother pined, 

I said his mighty heart declined, 

He loathed and put away his food; 

It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, 

For we were used to hunter's fare, 130 

And for the like had little care: 

The milk drawn from the mountain goat 

Was changed for water from the moat; 

Our bread was such as captives' tears 

Have moistened many a thousand years, 135 

Since man first pent his fellow men 

Like brutes within an iron den; 

But what were these to us or him? 

These wasted not his heart or limb; 

My brother's soul was of that mould 140 

Which in a palace had grown cold. 

Had his free breathing been denied 

The range of the steep mountain's side; 

But why delay the truth ? — he died. 

I saw, and could not hold his head, 145 

Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead, — 

Though hard I strove, but strove in vain. 

To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 

He died — and they unlocked his chain. 

And scooped for him a shallow grave 150 

Even from the cold earth of our cave. 

I begged them, as a boon, to lay 

His corse in dust whereon the day 

Might shine — it was a foolish thought. 

But then within my brain it wrought, 155 



118 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

That even in death his freeborn breast 

In such a dungeon could not rest. 

I might have spared my idle prayer — 

They coldly laughed — and laid him there: 

The flat and turfless earth above 160 

The being we so much did love; 

His empty chain above it leant. 

Such murder's fitting monument! 



VIII 

But he, the favorite and the flower. 

Most cherished since his natal hour, 165 

His mother's image in fair face. 

The infant love of all his race. 

His martyred father's dearest thought. 

My latest care, for whom I sought 

To hoard my life, that his might be 170 

Less wretched now, and one day free; 

He, too, who yet had held untired 

A spirit natural or inspired — 

He, too, was struck, and day by day 

Was withered on the stalk away. 175 

O God! it is a fearful thing 

To see the human soul take wing 

In any shape, in any mood: 

IVe seen it rushing forth in blood, 

I've seen it on the breaking ocean I80 

Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, 

IVe seen the sick and ghastly bed 

Of Sin delirious with its dread: 

But these were horrors — this was woe 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 11 J) 

Unmixed with sudi,— ))iit sure and slow: 185 

He faded, and so ealm and meek, 

So softly Avorn, so sweetly weak. 

So tearless, yet so tender — kind. 

And grieved for those he left behind; 

With all the while a cheek whose bloom 190 

Was as a mockery of the tomb. 

Whose tints as gently sunk away 

As a departing rainbow^'s ray, — 

An eye of most transparent light. 

That almost made the dungeon bright; iQS 

And not a word of murmur — not 

A groan o'er his untimely lot, — 

A little talk of better days, 

A little hope my own to raise. 

For I was sunk in silence — lost 200 

In this last loss, of all the most; 

And then the sighs he would suppress 

Of fainting nature's feebleness. 

More slow^ly drawn, grew less and less: 

I listened, but I could not hear— 205 

I called, for I was wild with fear; 

I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 

Would not be thus admonished; 

I called, and thought I heard a sound — 

I burst my chain wath one strong bound, 210 

And rushed to him: — I found him not, 

/ only stirred in this black spot, 

I only lived — I only drew 

The accursed breath of dungeon-dew; 

The last— the sole— the dearest link 215 

Between me and the eternal brink, 



120 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

Which bound me to my failing race. 

Was broken in this fatal place. 

One on the earth, and one beneath — 

My brothers — both had ceased to breathe: 220 

I took that hand which lay so still, 

Alas! my own was full as chill; 

I had not strength to stir, or strive. 

But felt that I was still alive — 

A frantic feeling, when we know 225 

That what we love shall ne'er be so. 

I know not why 

I could not die, 
I had no earthly hope — but faith. 
And that forbade a selfish death. 230 

IX 

What next befell me then and there 

I know not well — I never knew — 

First came the loss of light, and air, 

And then of darkness too: 
I had no thought, no feeling — none — 235 

Among the stones I stood a stone. 
And was, scarce conscious what I wist. 
As shrubless crags within the mist; 
For all was blank, and bleak, and gray. 
It was not night — it was not day; 240 

It was not even the dungeon-light. 
So hateful to my heavy sight. 
But vacancy absorbing space. 
And fixedness, without a place; 
There were no stars — no earth — no time — • 245 
No check — no change — no good — no crime — 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 121 

But silence, and a stirless hreath 

Which neither was of life nor death; 

A sea of stagnant idleness; 

Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless 1 250 



A light broke in upon my brain, — 

It was the carol of a bird; 
It ceased, and then it came again, 

The sweetest song ear ever heard, 
And mine was thankful, till my eyes 255 

Ran over with the glad surprise, 
And they that moment could not see 
I was the mate of misery; 
But then by dull degrees came back 
My senses to their wonted track, 260 

I saw the dungeon walls and floor 
Close slowly round me as before, 
I saw the glimmer of the sun 
Creeping as it before had done, 
But through the crevice where it came 265 

That bird was perched, as fond and tame. 

And tamer than upon the tree; 
A lovely bird, with azure wrings, 
And song that said a thousand things. 

And seemed to say them all for me! 270 

I never saw its like before, 
I ne'er shall see its likeness more: 
It seemed, like me, to want a mate, 
But wa3 not half so desolate. 
And it was come to love me when 275 

None lived to love me so again, 



122 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

And cheering from ray dungeon's brink. 
Had brought me back to feel and think. 
I know not if it late were free, 

Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 280 

But knowing well captivity, 

Sweet bird! I could not wish for thine! 
Or if it were, in winged guise, 
A visitant from Paradise; 

For — Heaven forgive that thought! the while 285 

Which made me both to weep and smile — 
I sometimes deemed that it might be 
My brother's soul come down to me; 
But then at last away it flew. 

And then 'twas mortal well I knew, 290 

For he would never thus have flown — 
And left me twice so doubly lone, — 
Lone — as the corse within its shroud. 
Lone — as a solitary cloud, 

A single cloud on a sunny day, 295 

While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
A frown upon the atmosphere. 
That hath no business to appear 

When skies are blue and earth is gay. 

XI 

A kind of change came in my fate, 3oo 

My keepers grew compassionate; 

I know not what had made them so. 

They were inured to sights of woe; 

But so it was: — my broken chain 

With links unfastened did remain, 305 

And it was liberty to stride 



THE PRISONER OF ClllLLON 123 

Along my cell from side to side, 

And up and down, and then athwart. 

And tread it over every part; 

And round the pillars one by one, 310 

Returning where my walk begun. 

Avoiding only, as I trod, 

My brothers' graves without a sod; 

For if I thought with heedless tread 

My step profaned their lowly bed, 315 

My breath came gaspingly and thick, 

And my crushed heart fell blind and sick. 

XII 

I made a footing in the wall. 

It was not therefrom to escape. 
For I had buried one and all 32o 

Who loved me in a human shape; 
And the whole earth would henceforth be 
A wider prison unto me: 
No child — no sire — no kin had I, 
No partner in my misery; 325 

I thought of this, and I was glad. 
For thought of them had made me mad; 
But I was curious to ascend 
To my barred windows, and to bend 
Once more, upon the mountains high, 330 

The quiet of a loving eye. 

XIII 

I saw them — and they were the same. 
They were not changed like me in frame; 



124 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

I saw their thousand years of snow 

On high— their wide long lake below, 335 

And the blue Rhone in fullest flow; 

I heard the torrents leap and gush 

O'er channelled rock and broken bush; 

I saw the white-walled distant town. 

And whiter sails go skimming down; 340 

And then there was a little isle, 

Which in my very face did smile. 
The only one in view: 

A small green isle, it seemed no more. 

Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, 345 

But in it there were three tall trees, 

And o'er it blew the mountain breeze. 

And by it there were waters flowing, 

And on it there were young flowers growing, 

Of gentle breath and hue. 330 

The fish swam by the castle wall. 
And they seemed joyous— each and all; 
The eagle rode the rising blast, 
Methought he never flew so fast 

As then to me he seemed to fly; 355 

And then new tears came in my eye. 
And I felt troubled— and would fain 
I had not left my recent chain; 
And when I did descend again. 

The darkness of my dim abode 36o 

Fell on me as a heavy load; 
It was as is a new-dug grave. 
Closing o'er one we sought to save,— 
And yet my glance, too much oppressed. 
Had almost need of such a rest. 365 



THE PRISONER OF ClllLLON 125 



XIV 

It might be months, or years, or days — 

I kept no count — I took no note — 
I had no hope my eyes to raise, 

And clear them of their dreary mote; 
At last men came to set me free; 370 

I asked not why, and recked not where; 
It was at length the same to me, 
Fettered or fetterless to be, 

I learned to love despair. 
And thus, when they appeared at last, 375 

And all my bonds aside were cast. 
These heavy walls to me had grown 
A hermitage — and all my own! 
And half I felt as they were come 
To tear me from a second home: 380 

With spiders I had friendship made, 
And watched them in their sullen trade. 
Had seen the mice by moonlight play. 
And why should I feel less than they? 
We were all inmates of one place, 385 

And I, the monarch of each race. 
Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell! 
In quiet we had learned to dwell; 
My very chains and I grew friends. 
So much a long communion tends 390 

To make us what we are: — even I 
Regained my freedom with a sigh. 



MAZEPPA 



*TwAS after dread Piiltowa's day, ^ 

When fortune left the royal Swede — 
Around a slaughtered army lay. 

No more to combat and to bleed. 
The power and glory of the war, 5 

Faithless as their vain votaries, men. 
Had passed to the triumphant Czar, 

And Moscow's walls were safe again — 
Until a day more dark and drear. 
And a more memorable year, lo 

Should give to "slaughter and to shame 
A mightier host and haughtier name; 
A greater wreck, a deeper fall, 
A shock to one — a thunderbolt to all. 

II 

Such was the hazard of the die; 15 

The wounded Charles was taught to fly 
By day and night, through field and flood. 
Stained with his own and subjects' blood; 
For thousands fell that flight to aid: 
And not a voice was heard to upbraid 20 

Ambition in his humbled hour. 
When truth had nought to dread from power. 
His horse was slain, and Gieta gave 
His own — and died the Russians' slave. 
This, too, sinks after many a league 25 

126 



MAZKPrA 127 

Of well-sustained, but vain fatigue; 

And in the depth of forests darkling, 

The watch-fires in the distance sparkling — 

The beacons of surrounding foes — 
A king must lay his limbs at length. 30 

Are these the laurels and repose 
For which the nations strain their strength ? 
They laid him by a savage tree. 
In outworn nature's agony; 

His wounds were stiff, his limbs were stark, 35 

The heavy hour was chill and dark; 
The fever in his blood forbade 
A transient slumber's fitful aid: 
And thus it was; but yet through all. 
Kinglike the monarch bore his fall, 40 

And made, in this extreme of ill. 
His pangs the vassals of his will: 
All silent and subdued were they, 
As once the nations round him lay. 

Ill 

A band of chiefs! — alas! how few, 45 

Since but the fleeting of a day 
Had thinned it; but this wreck w^as true 

And chivalrous: upon the clay 
Each sate him down, all sad and mute. 

Beside his monarch and his steed; so 

For danger levels man and brute. 

And all are fellows in their need. 
Among the rest, Mazeppa made 
His pillow in an old oak's shade — 
Himself as rough, and scarce less old, 55 



128 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

The Ukraine's Hetman, calm and bold; 

But first, outspent with this long course, 

The Cossack prince rubbed down his horse. 

And made for him a leafy bed. 

And smoothed his fetlocks and his mane, 60 

And slacked his girth, and stripped his rein. 

And joyed to see how well he fed; 

For until now he had the dread 

His wearied courser might refuse 

To browse beneath the midnight dews: 65 

But he was hardy as his lord. 

And little cared for bed and board; 

But spirited and docile too, 

Whate'er was to be done, would do. 

Shaggy and swift, and strong of limb, 70 

All Tartar-like he carried him; 

Obeyed his voice, and came to call, 

And knew him in the midst of all: 

Though thousands were around, — and Night, 

Without a star, pursued her flight, — 75 

That steed from sunset until dawn 

His chief would follow like a fawn. 

IV 

This done, Mazeppa spread his cloak, 

And laid his lance beneath his oak. 

Felt if his arms in order good so 

The long day's march had well withstood — 

If still the powder filled the pan. 

And flints unloosened kept their lock — 
His sabre's hilt and scabbard felt. 
And whether they had chafed his belt; 85 



MAZEPPA 121) 

And next (lir vc'n(M'ni)l(> man. 
From out his liawrsack and can, 

Preparrd and spread his slender stock; 
And to the monarch and liis men 

The whoh^ or portion offered then, 90 

With far l(\ss of incjuietude 
Than courtiers at a banquet would. 
And Charles of this his slender share 
With smiles partook a moment there. 
To force of cheer a greater show, 95 

And seem above both wounds and woe; — 
And then lie said : — " Of all our band. 
Though firm of heart and strong of hand. 
In skirmish, march, or forage, none 
Can less have said or more have done 100 

Than thee, Mazeppa! On the earth 
So fit a pair had never birth. 
Since Alexander's days till now. 
As thy Bucephalus and thou: 

All Scythia's fame to thine should yield 105 

For pricking on o'er flood and field." 
Mazeppa answered, — "111 betide 
The school wherein I learned to ride!" 
Quoth Charles,—** Old Hetman, wherefore so. 
Since thou hast learned the art so well?" no 

Mazeppa said, — " *Twere long to tell ; 
And we have many a league to go. 
With every now and then a blow. 
And ten to one at least the foe. 

Before oui- steeds may graze at ease, 115 

Beyond the swift Borysthenes: 
And, sire, your limbs have need of rest. 



130 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

And I will be the sentinel 

Of this your troop." — " But I request," 

Said Sweden's monarch, "thou wilt tell 120 

This tale of thine, and I may reap, 

Perchance, from this the boon of sleep; 

For at this moment from my eyes 

The hope of present slumber flies." 

"Well, sire, with such a hope I'll track 125 

My seventy years of memory back: 

I think 'twas in my twentieth spring, — , 

Aye, 'twas, — when Casimir was king — 

John Casimir, — I was his page 

Six summers in my earlier age: 130 

A learned monarch, faith! was he. 

And most unlike your Majesty; 

He made no wars, and did not gain 

New realms to lose them back again; 

And (save debates in Warsaw's diet) 135 

He reigned in most unseemly quiet: 

Not that he had no cares to vex; 

He loved the muses and the sex; 

And sometimes these so froward are, 

They made him wish himself at war; 140 

But soon his wrath being o'er, he took 

Another mistress — or new book: 

And then he gave prodigious fetes — 

All Warsaw gathered round his gates 

To gaze upon his splendid court, 145 

And dames, and chiefs, or princely port; 

He was the Polish Solomon, 

So sung his poets, all but one, 



MAZEPPA ISl 

Who, being unpensioiud, iiiiuk' n satire, 

And boasted that he could not flatter. 150 

It was a court of jousts and mimes, 

Where every courtier tried at rhymes; 

P^ven I for once prochiced some verses, 

And signed my o(h\s " Despairing Thyrsis." 

There was a certain Palatine, 155 

A count of far and higli descent, 
llich as a salt or silver mine; 
And he was proud, ye may divine. 

As if from lieaven he h.ad been sent; 
He had such wealth in blood and ore I60 

As few could match beneath the throne; 
And he would gaze upon his store. 
And o'er his pedigree would pore. 
Until by some confusion led. 
Which almost looked like want of head, 165 

He thought their merits w^ere his own. 
His wife was not of his opinion — 

His junior she by thirty years — 
Grew daily tired of his dominion; 

And, after wishes, hopes, and fears, 170 

To virtue a few farewell tears, 
A restless dream or two — some glances, 
At Warsaw's youth — some songs, and dances. 
Awaited but the usual chances. 

Those happy accidents which render 175 

The coldest dames so very tender. 
To deck her Count w^ith tides given, 
'Tis said, as passports into heaven; 
But, strange to say, they rarely boast 
Of these, who have deserved them most. 18O 



132 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 



"I was a goodly stripling then: 

At seventy years I so may say. 
That there were few, or boys or men, 

Who, in my dawning time of day. 
Of vassal or of knight's degree, 185 

Could vie in vanities with me; 
For I had strength — youth — gaiety, 
A port, not like to this ye see. 
But smooth, as all is rugged now; 

For time, and care, and war have ploughed 190 
My very soul from out my brow; 

And thus I should be disavowed 
By all my kind and kin, could they 
Compare my day and yesterday; 
This change was wrought, too, long ere age 195 

Had ta'en my features for his page: 
With years, ye know, have not declined 
My strength — my courage — or my mind. 
Or at this hour I should not be 

Telling old tales beneath a tree, 200 

With starless skies my canopy. 

But let me on: Theresa's form — 
Methinks it glides before me now. 
Between me and yon chestnut's bough. 

The memory is so quick and warm; 205 

And yet I find no words to tell 
The shape of her I loved so well: 
She had the Asiatic eye. 

Such as our Turkish neighborhood 

Hath mingled with our Polish blood, 210 



MAZEPPA 133 

Dark as above us is the sky; 

But through it stole a tender liglit, 

Like the first moonrise of midnight; 

Large, dark, and swimming in the stream, 

Whieh seemed to melt to its own beam; 2i5 

All love, half languor, and half fire. 

Like saints that at the stake expire, 

And lift their raptured looks on high. 

As though it were a joy to die. 

A brow like a midsummer lake, 220 

Transparent with the sun therein. 
When waves no murmur dare to make, 

And heaven beholds her face within. 
A cheek and Vip — but why proceed? 

I loved her then — I love her still ; 225 

And such as I am, love indeed 

In fierce extremes — in good and ilL 
But still we love even in our rage. 
And haunted to our very age 

With the vain shadow of the past, 230 

As is Mazeppa to the last. 

VI 

"We met — we gazed — I saw, and sighed; 

She did not speak, and yet replied; 

There are ten thousand tones and signs 

We hear and see, but none defines — 235 

Involuntary sparks of thought, 

Which strike from out the heart o'erwrought. 

And from a strange intelligence. 

Alike mysterious and intense. 

Which link the burning chain that binds, 240 



134 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

Without their will, young hearts and minds; 

Conveying, as the electric wire, 

We know not how, the absorbing fire. — 

I saw, and sighed — in silence wept. 

And still reluctant distance kept, 245 

Until I was made known to her. 

And we might then and there confer 

Without suspicion — then, even then, 

I longed, and was resolved to speak; 
But on my lips they died again, 250 

The accents tremulous and weak. 
Until one hour. — ^There is a game, 

A frivolous and foolish play. 

Wherewith we while away the day; 
It is — I have forgot the name — 255 

And we to this, it seems, were set. 
By some strange chance, which I forget: 
I recked not if I won or lost. 

It was enough for me to be 

So near to hear, and oh! to see 260 

The being whom I loved the most. 
I watched her as a sentinel, 
(May ours this dark night watch as well!) 

Until I saw, and thus it was, 
That she was pensive, nor perceived 265 

Her occupation, nor was grieved 
Nor glad to lose or gain; but still 
Played on for hours, as if her will 
Yet bound her to the place, though not 
That hers might be the winning lot. 270 

Then through my brain the thought did pass. 
Even as a flash of lightning there, 



MAZKrr.V 1:5.5 

'JMial lluTc was sonictliln^ in licr air 

Which would not doom ine to despair; 

And on the thought my words broke forth, 275 

All incolRTCMit as they were; 
Tlu'ir i'lo([uenc'e was little wortli, 
But yet she listened — 'tis enough — 

Who listens once will listen twice; 

Her heart, he sure, is not of ice — 280 

And one refusal no rebuff. 

VII 

"I loved, and was beloved again — 

They tell me, sire, you never knew 

Those gentle frailties; if 'tis true, 
I shorten all my joy or pain ; 285 

To you 'twould seem absurd as vain; 
But all men are not born to reign. 
Or o'er their passions, or as you 
ThiLs o'er themselves and nations too. 
I am — or rather \cas — a prince, 290 

A chief of thousands, and could lead 

Them on where each would foremost bleed; 
But could not o'er myself evince 
The like control. — But to resume: 

I loved, and was beloved again; 295 

In sooth it is a happy doom. 

But yet where happiest ends in pain. — 
We met in secret, and the hour 
Which led me to that lady's bower 
Was fiery Expectation's dower. 300 

My days and nights were nothing — all 
Except that hour which doth recall 



LS6 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

In the long lapse from youth to age. 

No other like itself: I'd give 

The Ukraine back again to live 305 

It o'er once more, and be a page, 
The happy page, who was the lord 
Of one soft heart, and his own sword, 
And had no other gem nor wealth. 
Save nature's gift of youth and health. — 3io 

We met in secret — doubly sweet, 
Some say, they find it so to meet; 
I know not that — I would have given 

My life but to have called her mine 
In the full view of earth and heaven; 3i5 

For I did oft and long repine 
That we could only meet by stealth. 

VIII 

"For lovers there are many eyes. 
And such there were on us; the devil 
On such occasions should be civil — 320 

The devil! — I'm loth to do him wrong; 
It might be some untoward saint. 

Who would not be at rest too long. 
But to his pious bile give vent — 

But one fair night, some lurking spies 325 

Surprised and seized us both. 

The Count was something more than wroth — 

I was unarmed; but if in steel. 

All cap-a-pie from head to heel, 

What 'gainst their numbers could I do? 33o 

'Twas near his castle, far away 



345 



MAZEPPA 1-^ 

From city or from succor near. 
And almost on the break of day; 
I did not think to see another, 

My moments seemed reduced to few; 335 

And with one prayer to Mary Mother, 

And, it may be, a saint or two. 
As I resigned me to my fate. 
They led me to the castle gate: 

Theresa's doom I never knew, 340 

Our lot was henceforth separate. 
An angry man, ye may opine. 
Was he, the proud Count Palatine; 
And he had reason good to be. 
But he was most enraged lest such 
An accident should chance to touch 
Upon his future pedigree; 
Nor less amazed that such a blot 
His noble 'scutcheon should have got. 
While he was highest of his line; 
Because unto himself he seemed 
The first of men, nor less he deemed 
In others' eyes, and most in mine. 
'Sdeath! with a pa^e— perchance a king 
Had reconciled him to the thing; 355 

But with a stripling of a page— 
I felt— but cannot paint his rage. 

IX 

" ' Bring forth the horse ! ' The horse was brought ; 

In truth he was a noble steed, 

A Tartar of the Ukraine breed, 360 

Who looked as though the speed of thought 



350 



138 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

Were in his limbs; but he was wild. 
Wild as the wild deer, and untaught. 

With spur and bridle undefiled — 

'Twas but a day he had been caught; 365 

And snorting, with erected mane. 

And struggling fiercely, but in vain. 

In the full foam of wrath and dread 

To me the desert-born was led: 

They bound me on, that menial throng, 370 

Upon his back with many a thong; 

Then loosed him with a sudden lash — 

Away! — away! — and on we dash! — 

Torrents less rapid and less rash. 



"Away! — away! — my breath was gone, 375 

I saw not where he hurried on: 

'Twas scarcely yet the break of day. 

And on he foamed — away! — away! — 

The last of human sounds which rose. 

As I was darted from my foes, 380 

Was the wild shout of savage laughter. 

Which on the wind came roaring after 

A moment from that rabble rout: 

With sudden wrath I wrenched my head. 

And snapped the cord which to the mane 385 

Had bound my neck in lieu of rein, 
And, writhing half my form about, 
Howled back my curse; but 'midst the tread. 
The thunder of my courser's speed. 
Perchance they did not hear nor heed: 390 



MAZEPPA K5!) 

It vexes me — for I would fain 

Have paid their insult back again. 

I paid it well in after days: 

There is not of that castle gate, 

Its drawbridge and portcullis weight, 395 

Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left; 

Nor of its fields a blade of grass. 

Save what grows on a ridge of wall. 

Where stood the hearth-stone of the hall; 
And a many time ye there might pass, 4oo 

Nor dream that ere that fortress was. 
I saw its turrets in a blaze. 
Their crackling batUements all cleft. 

And the hot lead pour down like rain 
From off the scorched and blackening roof, 405 

Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof. 

They litde thought that day of pain, 
When launched, as on the lightning's flash. 
They bade me to destruction dash. 

That one day I should come again, 4io 

With twice five thousand horse, to thank 
The Count for his uncourteous ride. 
They played me then a bitter prank. 

When, with the wild horse for my guide. 
They bound me to his foaming flank: 4i5 

At length I played them one as frank—- 
For time at last sets all things even — 

And if we do but watch the hour. 

There never yet was human power 
Which could evade, if unforgiven, 420 

The patient search and vigil long 
Of him who treasures up a wrong. 



140 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 



XI 

"Away! — away! — my steed and I, 

Upon the pinions of the wind! 

All human dwellings left behind, 425 

We sped like meteors through the sky, 
When with its crackling sound the night 
Is chequered with the northern light. 
Town — village — none were on our track, 

But a wild plain of far extent, 430 

And bounded by a forest black; 

And, save the scarce, seen battlement 
On distant heights of some strong hold, 
Against the Tartars built of old. 
No trace of man. The year before 435 

A Turkish army had marched o'er; 
And where the Spahi's hoof hath trod. 
The verdure flies the bloody sod: 
The sky was dull, and dim, and gray. 
And a low breeze crept moaning by — 440 

I could have answered with a sigh — 
But fast we fled, — away! — away! — 
And I could neither sigh nor pray; 
And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain 
Upon the courser's bristling mane; 445 

But, snorting still with rage and fear. 
He flew upon his far career: 
At times I almost thought, indeed. 
He must have slackened in his speed; 
But no — my bound and slender frame 450 

Was nothing to his angry might. 
And merely like a spur became: 



MAZEPPA 141 

Each motion which I made to free 
My swoln limbs from their agony 

Increased his fury and affright: 455 

I tried my voice, — 'twas faint and low — 
But yet he swerved as from a blow; 
And, starting to each accent, sprang 
As from a sudden trumpet's clang: 
Meantime my cords were wet with gore, 4go 

Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er. 
And in my tongue the thirst became 
A something fierier than flame. 

XII 

"We neared the wild wood — 'twas so wide, 

I saw no bounds on either side: 465 

'Twas studded with old sturdy trees. 

That bent not to the roughest breeze 

Which howls down from Siberia's waste. 

And strips the forest in its haste, — 

But these were few and far between, 470 

Set thick with shrubs more young and green. 

Luxuriant with their annual leaves 

Ere strewn by those autumnal eves 

That nip the forest's foliage dead. 

Discolored with a lifeless red, 475 

Which stands thereon, like stiffened gore 

Upon the slain w4ien battle's o'er. 

And some long winter's night hath shed 

Its frosts o'er every tombless head — 

So cold and stark — the raven's beak 480 

May peck unpierced each frozen cheek: 

'Twas a wild waste of underwood. 



142 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

And here and there a chestnut stood, 
The strong oak, and the hardy pine; 

But far apart — and well it were, 485 

Or else a different lot were mine — 

The boughs gave way, and did not tear 
My limbs; and I found strength to bear 
My wounds, already scarred with cold; 
My bonds forbade to loose my hold. 490 

We rustled through the leaves like wind, — 
Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind; 
By night I heard them on the track. 
Their troop came hard upon our back. 
With their long gallop, which can tire 495 

The hound's deep hate and hunter's fire: 
Where'er we flew they followed on. 
Nor left us with the morning sun; 
Behind I saw them, scarce a rood. 
At day-break winding through the wood, 500 

And through the night had heard their feet 
Their stealing, rustling step repeat. 
Oh! how I wished for spear or sword. 
At least to die amidst the horde. 
And perish — if it must be so — 505 

At bay, destroying many a foe! 
When first my courser's race begun, 
I wished the goal already won; 
But now I doubted strength and speed: 
Vain doubt! his swift and savage breed 5io 

Had nerved him like the mountain roe — 
Nor faster falls the blinding snow 
Which whelms the peasant near the door 
Whose threshold he shall cross no more. 



MAZEPPA 143 

Bewildered with the dazzHng blast, 515 

Than through the forest-paths he passed — 

Un tired, untamed, and worse than wild — 

All furious as a favored child 

Balked of its w^ish; or — fiercer still — 

A woman piqued — who has her will! 520 

XIII 

"The wood was passed; 'twas more than noon. 

But chill the air, although in June; 

Or it might be my veins ran cold — 

Prolonged endurance tames the bold; 

And I was not then what I seem, 525 

But headlong as a \vintry stream. 

And wore my feelings out before 

I well could count their causes o'er: 

And what with fury, fear, and wrath. 

The tortures which beset my path — 530 

Cold — hunger — sorrow — shame — distress, — 

Thus bound in nature's nakedness; 

Sprung from a race whose rising blood. 

When stirred beyond its calmer mood. 

And trodden hard upon, is like 535 

The rattlesnake's, in act to strike — 

What marvel if this w^orn-out trunk 

Beneath its woes a moment sunk? 

The earth gave way, the skies rolled round, 

I seemed to sink upon the ground, 640 

But erred — for I was fastly bound. 

My heart turned sick, my brain grew sore. 

And throbbed awhile, then beat no more: 

The skies spun like a mighty w^heel; 



144 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

I saw the trees like drunkards reel, 545 

And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes. 

Which saw no farther: he who dies 

Can die no more than then I died. 

O'ertortured by that ghastly ride, 

I felt the blackness come and go, 550 

And strove to wake; but could not make 
My senses climb up from below: 
I felt as on a plank at sea, 
When all the waves that dash o'er thee 
At the same time upheave and whelm, 555 

And hurl thee towards a desert realm. 
My undulating life was as 
The fancied lights that flitting pass 
Our shut eyes in deep midnight, when 
Fever begins upon the brain; 560 

But soon it passed, with little pain. 

But a confusion worse than such: 

I own that I should deem it much. 
Dying, to feel the same again; 

And yet I do suppose we must 565 

Feel far more ere we turn to dust! 
No matter! I have bared my brow 
Full in Death's face — before — and now. 

XIV 

" My thoughts came back. Where was I ? Cold, 

And numb, and giddy: pulse by pulse 570 

Life reassumed its lingering hold. 
And throb by throb, — till grown a pang 
Which for a moment could convulse. 
My blood reflowed, though thick and chill; 



MAZEPPA 14.5 

My car with uncouth noises rang, 575 

My heart began once more to thrill; 
My sight returned, though dim, alas! 
And thickened, as it were with glass. 
Methought the dash of waves was nigh; 
There was a gleam, too, of the sky, 580 

Studded with stars; — it is no dream; 
The wild horse swims the wilder stream! 
The bright, broad river's gushing tide 
Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide. 
And we are half way, struggling o'er 585 

To yon unknown and silent shore. 
The waters broke my hollow trance. 
And with a temporary strength 

My stiffened limbs were rebaptized. 
My courser's broad breast proudly braves, 590 

And dashes off the ascending waves. 
And onward we advance! 
We reach the slippery shore at length, 

A haven I but little prized, 
For all behind was dark and drear, 595 

And all before was night and fear. 
How many hours of night or day 
In those suspended pangs I lay, 
I could not tell; I scarcely knew 
If this were human breath I drew. 600 

XV 

"With glossy skin, and dripping mane, 
And reeling limbs, and reeking flank. 

The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain 
Up the repelling bank. 



146 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

We gain the top; a boundless plain 605 

Spread through the shadow of the night. 

And onward, onward, onward — seems, 

Like precipices in our dreams. 
To stretch beyond the sight; 
And here and there a speck of white, 6io 

Or scattered spot of dusky green, 
In masses broke into the light. 
As rose the moon upon my right: 

But nought distinctly seen 
In the dim waste would indicate 6i5 

The omen of a cottage gate; 
No twinkling taper from afar 
Stood like a hospitable star; 
Not even an ignis-fatuus rose 
To make him merry with my woes: 620 

That very cheat had cheered me then! 
Although detected, welcome still, 
Reminding me, through every ill. 

Of the abodes of men. 

XVI 

"Onward we went — but slack and slow; 625 

His savage force at length o'erspent. 
The drooping courser, faint and low. 

All feebly foaming went: 
A sickly infant had had power 
To guide him forward in that hour! 630 

But, useless all to me, 
His new-born tameness nought availed— 
My limbs were bound; my force had failed. 

Perchance, had they been free. 



MAZEPPA 1^^ 

With feeble effort still I tried 635 

To rend the bonds so starkly tied. 
But still it was in vain ; 

My limbs were only wrung the more. 

And soon the idle strife gave o'er. 

Which but prolonged their pain: C4() 

The dizzy race seemed almost done. 

Although no goal w^as nearly won: 

Some streaks announced the coming sun- 
How slow, alas! he came! 

Methought that mist of dawning gray 645 

Would never dapple into day; 

How heavily it rolled away! 
Before the eastern flame 

Rose crimson, and deposed the stars, 

And called the radiance from their cars, 650 

And filled the earth, from his deep throne, 

With lonely lustre, all his own. 

XVII 

"Up rose the sun; the mists were curled 

Back from the solitary world 

Which lay around— behind— before, 655 

What booted it to traverse o'er 

Plain— forest— river? Man nor brute. 

Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot. 

Lay in the wild luxuriant soil — 

No sign of travel, none of toil — 660 

The very air was mute: 

And not an insect's shrill small horn, 

Nor matin bird's new voice, was borne 

From herb nor thicket. Many a werst, 



148 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

Panting as if his heart would burst, 665 

The weary brute still staggered on; 

And still we were — or seemed — alone: 

At length, while reeling on our way, 

Methought I heard a courser neigh. 

From out yon tuft of blackening firs. 670 

Is it the wind those branches stirs? 

No, no! from out the forest prance 

A trampling troop; I see them come! 
In one vast squadron they advance! 

I strove to cry — my lips were dumb. 675 

The steeds rush on in plunging pride; 
But where are they the reins to guide? 
A thousand horse, and none to ride! 
With flowing tail, and flying mane. 
Wide nostrils, never stretched by pain, 680 

Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein, 
And feet that iron never shod. 
And flanks unscarred by spur or rod, 
A thousand horse, the wild, the free. 
Like waves that follow o'er the sea, 685 

Came thickly thundering on, 
As if our faint approach to meet! 
The sight re-nerved my courser's feet, 
A moment staggering, feebly fleet, 
A moment, with a faint low neigh, 690 

He answered, and then fell! 
With gasps and glazing eyes he lay. 

And reeking limbs immovable, 

His first and last career is done! 
On came the troop — they saw him stoop, 695 
They saw me strangely bound along 



MAZEPPA 149 

His back with many a bloody thong. 
They stop — they start — they snuff the air, 
Gallop a moment here and there, 
Approach, retire, wheel round and round, 700 

Then plunging back with sudden bound, 
Headed by one black mighty steed. 
Who seemed the patriarch of his breed, 

Without a single speck or hair 
Of white upon his shaggy hide; 705 

They snort — they foam — neigh — swerve aside. 
And backward to the forest fly, 
By instinct, from a human eye. 

They left me there to my despair, 
Linked to the dead and stiffening wretch, 7io 

Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch. 
Relieved from that unwonted weight. 
From whence I could not extricate 
Nor him nor me — and there we lay, 

The dying on the dead! 715 

I little deemed another day 

Would see my houseless, helpless head. 

"And there from morn till twilight bound, 

I felt the heavy hours toil round. 

With just enough of life to see 720 

My last of suns go down on me. 

In hopeless certainty of mind, 

That makes us feel at length resigned 

To that which our foreboding years 

Present the worst and last of fears: 725 

Inevitable — even a boon. 

Nor more unkind for coming soon, 



150 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

Yet shunned and dreaded with such care. 
As if it only were a snare 

That prudence might escape: 730 

At times both wished for and implored. 
At times sought with self-pointed sword. 
Yet still a dark and hideous close 
To even intolerable woes. 

And welcome in no shape. 735 

And, strange to say, the sons of pleasure. 
They who have revelled beyond measure 
In beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure. 
Die calm, or calmer, oft than he 
Whose heritage was misery; 740 

For he who hath in turn run through 
All that was beautiful and new, 

Hath nought to hope, and nought to leave. 
And, save the future (which is viewed 
Not quite as men are base or good, 745 

But as their nerves may be endued,) 

With nought perhaps to grieve: 
The wretch still hopes his woes must end. 
And Death, whom he should deem his friend, 
Appears, to his distempered eyes, 750 

Arrived to rob him of his prize. 
The tree of his new Paradise. 
To-morrow would have given him all. 
Repaid his pangs, repaired his fall; 
To-morrow would have been the first 755 

Of days no more deplored or curst. 
But bright, and long, and beckoning years. 
Seen dazzling through the mist of tears. 
Guerdon of many a painful hour; 



MAZEPPA \rA 

To-morrow would have given him power 70o 

To rule — to shine — to smite — to save — 
And must it dawn upon his grave? 

XVIII 

"The sun was sinking — still I lay 

Chained to the chill and stiffening steed! 
I thought to mingle there our clay; 705 

And my dim eyes of death had need, 

No hope arose of being freed. 
I cast my last looks up the sky, 

And there between me and the sun 
I saw the expecting raven fly, tto 

Who scarce would wait till both should die. 

Ere his repast begun; 
He flew, and perched, then flew once more. 
And each time nearer than before; 
I saw his wing through twilight flit, 775 

And once so near me he aht 

I could have smote, but lacked the strength; 
But the slight motion of my hand. 
And feeble scratching of the sand. 
The exerted throat's faint struggling noise, 780 

Which scarcely could be called a voice, 

Together scared him off at length. 
I know no more — my latest dream 

Is something of a lovely star 

Which fixed my dull eyes from afar, 785 

And went and came with wandering beam. 
And of the cold, dull, swimming, dense 
Sensation of recurring sense. 
And then subsiding back to death. 



152 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

And then again a little breath, 790 

A little thrill — a short suspense. 

An icy sickness curdling o'er 

My heart, and sparks that crossed my brain — 

A gasp — a throb — a start of pain, 

A sigh, and nothing more. 795 

XIX 

"I woke — ^Where was I? — Do I see 

A human face look down on me? 

And doth a roof above me close? 

Do these limbs on a couch repose? 

Is this a chamber where I lie? soo 

And is it mortal, yon bright eye, 

That watches me with gentle glance? 

I close my own again once more. 
As doubtful that the former trance 

Could not as yet be o'er. 805 

A slender girl, long-haired, and tall. 
Sate watching by the cottage wall. 
The sparkle of her eye I caught. 
Even with my first return of thought; 
For ever and anon she threw 8io 

A prying, pitying glance on me 

With her black eyes so wild and free; 
I gazed, and gazed, until I knew 

No vision it could be, — 
But that I lived, arid was released sis 

From adding to the vulture's feast: 
And when the Cossack maid beheld 
My heavy eyes at length unsealed. 
She smiled — and I essayed to speak. 



MAZEPPA ir,:^ 

But failed — and she approached, and made 82o 

With hp and finger signs that said, 
I must not strive as yat to break 
The silence, till my strength should he 
Enough to leave my accents free; 
And then her hand on mine she laid, 82r, 

And smoothed the pillow for my head. 
And stole along on tiptoe tread. 

And gently oped the door, and spake 
In whispers — ne'er was voice so sweet! 
Even music followed her light feet. 83o 

But those she called were not awake, 
And she went forth; but, ere she passed. 
Another look on me she cast, 

Another sign she made, to say. 
That I had nought to fear, that all 835 

Were near, at my command or call. 

And she would not delay 
Her due return: — while she was gone, 
Methought I felt too much alone. 

XX 

**She came with mother and with sire — 840 

What need of more? — I will not tire 
With long recital of the rest 
Since I became the Cossack's guest. 
They found me senseless on the plain. 
They bore me to the nearest hut, 845 

They brought me into life again — 
Me — one day o'er their realm to reign! 
Thus the vain fool who strove to glut 
His rage, refining on my pain. 



154 BYRON^S SELECT POEMS 

Sent me forth to the wilderness, 850 

Bound, naked, bleeding, and alone. 
To pass the desert to a throne, — 

What mortal his own doom may guess? 

Let none despond, let none despair! 
To-morrow the Borysthenes 855 

May see our coursers graze at ease 
Upon his Turkish bank, — and never 
Had I such welcome for a river 

As I shall yield when safely there. 
Comrades, good-night!" — The Hetman threw 86o 

His length beneath the oak-tree shade, 

With leafy couch already made — 
A bed nor comfortless nor new 
To him, who took his rest whene'er 
The hour arrived, no matter where: 865 

His eyes the hastening slumbers steep. 
And if ye marvel Charles forgot 
To thank his tale, he wondered not, — 

The king had been an hour asleep! 



THE SHIPWRECK 

FROM THE SECOND CANTO OF 
"DON JUAN" 

STANZAS XXVI-LXXII (l-XLVIl); LXXXIV-CX 
(XLVIII-LXXIV) 



'TwAS not without some reason, for the wind 
Increased at night, until it blew a gale; 

And though Hwas not much to a naval mind. 
Some landsmen would have looked a little pale. 
For sailors are, in fact, a different kind; 
At sunset they began to take in sail. 

For the sky showed it would come on to blow. 

And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so. 

II 

At one o'clock, the wind with sudden shift 

Threw the ship right into the trough of the sea, 

Which struck her aft, and made an awkward rift. 
Started the stern-post, also shattered the 

Whole of her stern frame, and, ere she could lift 
Herself from out her present jeopardy. 

The rudder tore away: 'twas time to sound 

The pumps, and there were four feet water found. 
155 



156 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

III 

One gang of people Instantly was put 

Upon the pumps, and the remaining set 
To get up part of the cargo, and what not; 

But they could not come at the leak as yet. 20 

At last they did get at it really, but 

Still their salvation was an even bet: 
The water rushed through in a way quite puzzling, 
While they thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, bales of muslin, 

IV 

Into the opening; but all such ingredients 25 

Would have been vain, and they must have gone 
down. 

Despite of all their efforts and expedients, 

But for the pumps: I'm glad to make them known 

To all the brother tars who may have need hence. 

For fifty tons of water were upthrown 30 

By them per hour, and they had all been undone, 

But for the maker, Mr. Mann, of London. 



As day advanced the weather seemed to abate. 
And then the leak they reckoned to reduce, 

And keep the ship afloat, though three feet yet 35 

Kept two hand and one chain-pump still in use. 

The wind blew fresh again: as it grew late 

A squall came on, and while some guns broke loose, 

A gust — which all descriptive power transcends — 

Laid with one blast the ship on her beam-ends. 40 



THE SHIPWRECK 157 

VI 

There she lay, motionless, and seemed upset; 

The water left the hold, and washed the decks. 
And made a scene men do not soon forget: 

For they remember battles, fires, and wrecks. 
Or any other thing that brings regret, 46 

Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or heads, or necks: 
Thus drownings are much talked of by the divers. 
And swimmers, who may chance to be survivors. 



VII 

Immediately the masts were cut away. 

Both main and mizzen: first the mizzen went, 50 

The main-mast followed; but the ship still lay 

Like a mere log and bafl^led our intent. 
Foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and they 

Eased her at last (although we never meant 
To part with all till every hope was blighted), 55 

And then with violence the old ship righted. 



VIII 

It may be easily supposed, while this 

Was going on, some people were unquiet. 
That passengers would find it much amiss 

To lose their lives as well as spoil their diet; 60 

That even the able seaman, deeming his 

Days nearly o*er, might be disposed to riot. 
As upon such occasions tars will ask 
For grog, and sometimes drink rum from the cask. 



158 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 



IX 



There's nought, no doubt, so much the spirit calms, 65 

As rum and true rehgion: thus it was. 
Some plundered, some drank spirits, some sung psalms; 

The high wind made the treble, and as bass 
The hoarse, harsh waves kept time; fright cured the 
qualms 

Of all the luckless landsmen's sea-sick maws: 70 

Strange sounds of wailing, blasphemy, devotion. 
Clamored in chorus to the roaring ocean. 



Perhaps more mischief had been done, but for 
Our Juan, who, with sense beyond his years, 

Got to the spirit-room, and stood before 75 

It with a pair of pistols; and their fears. 

As if Death were more dreadful by his door 
Of fire than water, spite of oaths and tears. 

Kept still aloof the crew, who, ere they sunk. 

Thought it would be becoming to die drunk. so 

XI 

"Give us more grog!" they cried, "for it will be 
All one an hour hence." Juan answered, "No! 

'Tis true that death awaits both you and me. 
But let us die like men, not sink below 

Like brutes;" — and thus his dangerous post kept he, 85 
And none liked to anticipate the blow; 

And even Pedrillo, his most reverend tutor. 

Was for some rum a disappointed suitor. 



THE SHIPWRECK 150 

XII 

The good old gentleman was quite aghast. 

And made a loud and pious lamentation; 90 

Repented all his sins, and made a last 

Irrevocable vow of reformation; 
Nothing should tempt him more (this peril past) 

To quit his academic occupation. 
In cloisters of the classic Salamanca, 95 

To follow Juan's wake, like Sancho Panca. 



XIII 

But now there came a flash of hope once more; 

Day broke, and the wind lulled : the masts were gone, 
The leak increased: shoals round her, but no shore; 

The vessel swam, yet still she held her own. 100 

They tried the pumps again, and though before 

Their desperate efforts seemed all useless grown, 
A glimpse of sunshine set some hands to bale — 
The stronger pumped, the weaker thrummed a sail. 



XIV 

Under the vessel's keel the sail was passed, 105 

And for the moment it had some effect; 
But with a leak, and not a stick of mast. 

Nor rag of canvas, what could they expect? 
But still 'tis best to struggle to the last, 

'Tis never too late to be wholly wrecked: 110 

And though 'tis true that man can only die once, 
'Tis not so pleasant in the Gulf of Lyons. 



160 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

XV 

There winds and waves had hurled them, and from 
thence. 

Without their will, they carried them away; 
For they were forced with steering to dispense, lis 

And never had as yet a quiet day 
On which they might repose, or even commence 

A jurymast or rudder, or could say 
The ship would swim an hour, which, by good luck. 
Still swam — though not exactly like a duck. 120 

XVI 

The wind, in fact, perhaps was rather less, 

But the ship labored so, they scarce could hope 

To weather out much longer; the distress 
Was also great with which they had to cope 

For want of water, and their solid mess 126 

Was scant enough; in vain the telescope 

Was used — nor sail nor shore appeared in sight. 

Nought but the heavy sea and coming night. 



XVII 

Again the weather threatened, — again blew 

A gale, and in the fore and after hold 130 

Water appeared; yet, though the people knew 

All this, the most were patient, and some bold. 
Until the chains and leathers were worn through 

Of all our pumps; — a wreck complete she rolled 
At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are i35 

Like human beings during civil war. 



THE SHIPWRECK 1(11 



XVIII 



Then came the carpenter, at last, with tears 

In his rough eyes, and told the captain he 
Could do no more: he was a man in years, 

And long had voyaged through many a stormy sea; ho 
And if he wept at length, they were not fears 

That made his eyelids as a woman's be. 
But he, poor fellow, had a wife and children, 
Two things for dying people quite bewildering. 



XIX 



The ship was evidently settling now 145 

Fast by the head; and, all distinction gone. 

Some went to prayers again, and made a vow 
Of candles to their saints — but there were none 

To pay them with; and some looked o'er the bow; 

Some hoisted out the boats: and there was one 150 

That begged Pedrillo for an absolution. 

Who told him to be damned — in his confusion. 



XX 

Some lashed them in their hammocks; some put on 

Their best clothes, as if going to a fair; 
Some cursed the day on which they saw the sun, 165 

And gnashed their teeth, and, howling, tore their hair; 
And others went on as they had begun. 

Getting the boats out, being w^ell aware 
That a tight boat will live in a rough sea, 
Unless with breakers close beneath her lee. 160 



162 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

XXI 

The worst of all was, that in their condition. 

Having been several days in great distress, 
'Twas difficult to get out such provision 

As now might render their long suffering less: 
Men, even when dying, dislike inanition; 165 

Their stock was damaged by the weather's stress; 
Two casks of biscuit, and a keg of butter. 
Were all that could be thrown into the cutter. 



XXII 

But in the long-boat they contrived to stow 

Some pounds of bread, though injured by the wet; 170 
Water, a twenty-gallon cask or so. 

Six flasks of wine; and they contrived to get 
A portion of their beef up from below. 

And with a piece of pork, moreover, met, 
But scarce enough to serve them for a luncheon — 175 

Then there was rum, eight gallons in a puncheon. 



XXIII 

The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had 

Been stove, in the beginning of the gale; 
And the long-boat's condition was but bad. 

And there were but two blankets for a sail, iso 

And one oar for a mast, which a young lad 

Threw in by good luck over the ship's rail; 
And two boats could not hold, far less be stored. 
To save one half the people then on board. 



THE SHIPWRECK 

XXIV 

'Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down 
Over the waste of waters; like a veil 

Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown 
Of one whose hate is masked but to assail. 

Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown, 
And grimly darkled o^er the faces pale. 

And the dim desolate deep: twelve days had Fear 

Been their familiar, and now Death was here. 



XXV 

Some trial had been making at a raft, 
With little hope in such a rolling sea, 

A sort of thing at which one would have laughed. 
If any laughter at such times could be. 

Unless with people who too much have quaffed. 
And have a kind of wild and horrid glee, 

Half epileptical and half hysterical: — 

Their preservation would have been a miracle. 



XXVI 

At half-past eight o^clock, booms, hencoops, spars. 
And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose. 

That still could keep afloat the struggling tars. 
For yet they strove, although of no great use : 

There was no light in heaven but a few stars. 
The boats put off, o'ercrowded with their crews. 

She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port. 

And, going down head foremost — sunk, in short. 



164 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

XXVII 

Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell — 

Then shrieked the timid and stood still the brave — 210 

Then some leaped overboard with dreadful yell, 
As eager to anticipate their grave; 

And the sea yawned around her like a hell, 

And down she sucked with her the whirling wave, 

Like one who grapples with his enemy, 215 

And strives to strangle him before he die. 



XXVIII 

And first one universal shriek there rushed 

Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash 
Of echoing thunder; and then all was hushed, 

Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash 220 

Of billows; but at intervals there gushed, 

Accompanied with a convulsive splash, 
A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry 
Of some strong swimmer in his agony. 



XXIX 

The boats, as stated, had got off before, 225 

And in them crowded several of the crew; 
And yet their present hope was hardly more 

Than what it had been; for so strong it blew. 
There was slight chance of reaching any shore; 

And then they were too many, though so few — 230 

Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat. 
Were counted in them when they got afloat. 



THE SHIPWRECK ic>r> 

XXX 

All the rest perished : near two hundred souls 
Had left their bodies; and what's worse, alas I 

When over Catholics the ocean rolls, 235 

They must wait several weeks before a mass 

Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals, 

Because, till people know what's come to pass, 

They won't lay out their money on the dead — 

It costs three francs for every mass that's said. 240 



XXXI 

Juan got into the long-boat, and there 

Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place: 
It seemed as if they had exchanged their care. 

For Juan wore the magisterial face 
Which courage gives, while poor Pedrillo's pair 245 

Of eyes were crying for their owner's case; 
Battista, though, (a name called shortly Tita) 
Was lost by getting at some aqua-vita. 



XXXII 

Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save. 

But the same cause, conducive to his loss, 250 

Left him so drunk, he jumped into the wave. 

As o'er the cutter's edge he tried to cross. 
And so he found a wine-and-watery grave; 

They could not rescue him, although so close. 
Because the sea ran higher every minute, 255 

And for the boat — the crew kept crowding in it. 



166 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 



XXXIII 



A small old spaniel — which had been Don Jose's, 
His father's, whom he loved, as ye may think. 

For on such things the memory reposes 

With tenderness — stood howling on the brink, 200 

Knowing (dogs have such intellectual noses!) 
No doubt, the vessel was about to sink: 

And Juan caught him up, and, ere he stepped 

Off, threw him in, then after him he leaped. 



xxxiv 

He also stuffed his money where he could 265 

About his person, and Pedrillo's too. 
Who let him do, in fact, whatever he would. 

Not knowing what himself to say or do. 
As every rising wave his dread renewed; 

But Juan, trusting they might still get through, 270 
And deeming there were remedies for any ill. 
Thus re-embarked his tutor and his spaniel. 



xxxv 

*Twas a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet. 
That the sail was becalmed between the seas. 

Though on the wave's high top too much to set, 275 
They dared not take it in for all the breeze: 

Each sea curled o'er the stern, and kept them wet. 
And made them bale without a moment's ease. 

So that themselves as well as hopes were damped, 

And the poor little cutter quickly swamped. 280 



THE SHIPWRECK 167 

XXXVI 

Nine souls more went in her; the long-boat still 

Kept above water, with an oar for mast; 
Two blankets stitched together, answering ill 

Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast: 
Though every wave rolled menacing to fill, 285 

And present peril all before surpassed, 
They grieved for those who perished with the cutter. 
And also for the biscuit-casks and butter. 



XXXVII 

The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign 

Of the continuance of the gale: to run 290 

Before the sea, until it should grow fine, 

Was all that for the present could be done: 
A few teaspoonfuls of their rum and wine 

Were served out to the people, who begun 
To faint, and damaged bread wet through the bags, 295 

And most of them had little clothes but rags. 



XXXVIII 

They counted thirty, crowded in a space 

Which left scarce room for motion or exertion; 

They did their best to modify their case. 

One half sat up, though numbed with the immersion, 300 

While t'other half were laid down in their place. 
At watch and watch; thus, shivering like the tertian 

Ague in its cold fit, they filled their boat. 

With nothing but the sky for a great-coat. 



168 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

XXXIX 

'Tis very certain the desire of life 305 

Prolongs it; this is obvious to physicians. 

When patients, neither plagued with friends nor wife. 
Survive through very desperate conditions, 

Because they still can hope, nor shines the knife 

Nor shears of Atropos before their visions: 3io 

Despair of all recovery spoils longevity, 

And makes men's miseries of alarming brevity. 



XL 

'Tis said that persons living on annuities 
Are longer lived than others — God knows why. 

Unless to plague the grantors — yet so true it is, 3i5 

That some, I really think, do never die: 

Of any creditors the worst a Jew it is. 

And thafs their mode of furnishing supply: 

In my young days they lent me cash that way. 

Which I found very troublesome to pay. 320 



XLI 

'Tis thus with people in an open boat. 

They live upon the love of life, and bear 
More than can be believed, or even thought, 

And stand like rocks the tempest's wear and tear: 
And hardship still has been the sailor's lot, 325 

Since Noah's ark went cruising here and there; 
She had a curious crew as well as cargo, 
Like the first old Greek privateer, the Argo, 



THE SIIIPWRECK 1(><) 

XLII 

But man is a carnivorous production, 

And must have meals, at least one meal a day; •'^:'.n 
He cannot live, like woDdcocks, upon suction. 

But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey: 
Although his anatomical construction 

Bears vegetables, in a grumbling way, 
Your laboring people think, beyond all question, "35 
Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion. 



XLIII 

And thus it was with this our hapless crew; 

For on the third day there came on a calm, 
And though at first their strength it might renew, 

And, lying on their weariness like balm, 340 

Lulled them like turtles sleeping on the blue 

Of ocean, when they woke they felt a qualm, 
And fell all ravenously on their provision, 
Instead of hoarding it with due precision. 



XLIV 

The consequence was easily foreseen — 345 

They ate up all they had, and drank their wine. 

In spite of all remonstrances, and then 

On what, in fact, next day were they to dine? 

They hoped the wind would rise, these foolish men, 
And carry them to shore; these hopes were fine, 350 

But as they had but one oar, and that brittle. 

It would have been more wise to save their victual. 



170 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

XLV 

The fourth day came, but not a breath of air. 
And Ocean slumbered like an unweaned child; 

The fifth day, and their boat lay floating there, 355 

The sea and sky were blue, and clear, and mild — 

With their one oar (I wish they had had a pair) 
What could they do? and hunger's rage grew wild; 

So Juan's spaniel, spite of his entreating. 

Was killed, and portioned out for present eating. 36o 

XLVI 

On the sixth day they fed upon his hide, 

And Juan, who had still refused, because 
The creature was his father's dog that died, 

Now feeling all the vulture in his jaws. 
With some remorse received (though first denied), 365 

As a great favor, one of the fore-paws. 
Which he divided with Pedrillo, who 
Devoured it, longing for the other too. 

XLVII 

The seventh day, and no wind — the burning sun 

Blistered and scorched, and, stagnant on the sea, 370 

They lay like carcasses; and hope was none. 
Save in the breeze that came not: savagely 

They glared upon each other — all was done, 
Water, and wine, and food — and you might see 

The longings of the cannibal arise 375 

(Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes. 



THE SHIPWRECK 171 

XLVIII 

And the same night there fell a shower of rain, 

For which their mouths gaped, like the cracks of earth 

When dried to summer dust; till taught by pain, 

Men really know not what good water's worth: 380 

If you had been in Turkey or in Spain, 

Or with a famished boat's crew had your berth. 

Or in the desert heard the camel's bell, 

You'd wish yourself where Truth is — in a well. 

XLIX 

It poured down torrents, but they were no richer, 385 

Until they found a ragged piece of sheet, 
Wliich served them as a sort of spongy pitcher. 

And when they deemed its moisture was complete. 
They wrung it out, and though a thirsty ditcher 

Might not have thought the scanty draught so sweet 390 
As a full pot of porter, to their thinking, 
They ne'er till now had known the joys of drinking. 



And their baked lips, with many a bloody crack. 
Sucked in the moisture which like nectar streamed; 

Their throats were ovens, their swoln tongues were 

black, 395 

As the rich man's in hell, who vainly screamed 

To beg the beggar, who could not rain back 
A drop of dew, when every drop had seemed 

To taste of heaven — if this be true, indeed. 

Some Christians have a comfortable creed. 400 



172 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

LI 

There were two fathers in this ghastly crew. 

And with them their two sons, of whom the one 

Was more robust and hardy to the view. 
But he died early; and when he was gone, 

His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw 405 

One glance at him, and said, "Heaven's will be done: 

I can do nothing"; and he saw him thrown 

Into the deep, without a tear or groan. 



LII 

The other father had a weaklier child, 

Of a soft cheek and aspect delicate; 4io 

But the boy bore up long, and with a mild 

And patient spirit held aloof his fate; 
Little he said, and now and then he smiled. 

As if to win a part from off the weight 
He saw increasing on his father's heart, 416 

With the deep deadly thought that they must part. 



LIII 

And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised 
His eyes from off his face, but wiped the foam 

From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed; 

And when the wished-for shower at length was come, 420 

And the boy's eyes, which the dull film half glazed. 
Brightened and for a moment seemed to roam. 

He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain 

Into his dying child's mouth — but in vain. 



THE SHIPWRECK 178 

LIV 

The boy expired — the father held the clay, 425 

And looked upon it long; and when at last 

Death left no doubt, and the dead burthen lay 
Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were past. 

He watched it wistfully, until away 

'Twas borne by the rude wave wherein 'twas cast; 430 

Then he himself sunk down all dumb and shivering, 

And gave no signs of life, save his limbs quivering. 



LV 

Now overhead a rainbow, bursting through 

The scattering clouds, shone, spanning the dark sea. 

Resting Its bright base on the quivering blue, 435 

And all within its arch appeared to be 

Clearer than that w^ithout, and its wide hue 
Waxed broad and waving like a banner free, 

Then changed like to a bow that's bent, and then 

Forsook the dim eyes of these shipwrecked men. 440 



LVI 

It changed, of course; a heavenly chameleon. 

The airy child of vapor and the sun, 
Brought forth in purple, cradled in vermilion, 

Baptized in molten gold, and swathed in dun, 
Glittering like crescents o'er a Turk's pavilion, 445 

And blending every color into one. 
Just like a black eye in a recent scuffle 
(For sometimes we must box without the muffle). 



174 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

LVII 

Our shipwrecked seamen thought it a good omen — 

It is as well to think so now and then; 450 

'Twas an old custom of the Greek and Roman, 
And may become of great advantage when 

Folks are discouraged; and most surely no men 
Had greater need to nerve themselves again, 

Than these, and so this rainbow looked like hope — 455 

Quite a celestial kaleidoscope. 



LVIII 

About this time a beautiful white bird. 

Web-footed, not unlike a dove in size 
And plumage (probably it might have erred 

Upon its course), passed oft before their eyes, 460 

And tried to perch, although it saw and heard 

The men within the boat, and in this guise 
It came and went, and fluttered round them till 
Night fell — this seemed a better omen still. 



LIX 

But in this case I also must remark, 465 

'Twas well this bird of promise did not perch. 

Because the tackle of our shattered bark 
Was not so safe for roosting as a church; 

And had it been the dove from Noah's ark, 

Returning there from her successful search, 470 

Which in their way that moment chanced to fall. 

They would have eat her, olive-branch and all. 



THE SHIPWRECK 175 

LX 

With twilight it again came on to blow. 
But not with violence; the stars shone out. 

The boat made way; yet now they were so low 475 

They knew not where nor what they were about: 

Some fancied they saw land, and some said "No!" 
The frequent fog-banks gave them cause to doubt — 

Some sw^ore that they heard breakers, others guns. 

And all mistook about the latter once. 480 



LXI 

As morning broke, the light wind died away, 

When he who had the watch sung out and sw^ore. 

If 'twas not land that rose with the sun's ray. 
He wished that land he never might see more; 

And the rest rubbed their eyes and saw a bay, 485 

Or thought they saw, and shaped their course for shore ; 

For shore it was, and gradually grew 

Distinct and high, and palpable to view. 



LXII 

And then of these some part burst into tears. 

And others, looking with a stupid stare, 490 

Could not yet separate their hopes from fears. 
And seemed as if they had no further care; 

While a few prayed — (the first time for some years) — 
And at the bottom of the boat three were 

Asleep: they shook them by the hand and head, 495 

And tried to awaken them, but found them dead. 



176 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

LXIII 

The day before, fast sleeping on the water. 
They found a turtle of the hawk's-bill kind. 

And by good fortune, gliding softly, caught her, 

Which yielded a day's life, and to their mind soo 

Proved even still a more nutritious matter. 
Because it left encouragement behind: 

They thought that in such perils, more than chance 

Had sent them this for their deliverance. 



LXIV 

The land appeared a high and rocky coast, 505 

And higher grew the mountains as they drew. 

Set by a current, toward it; they were lost 
In various conjectures, for none knew 

To what part of the earth they had been tost. 

So changeable had been the winds that blew; 5io 

Some thought it was Mount iEtna, some the highlands 

Of Candia, Cyprus, Rhodes, or other islands. 



LXV 

Meantime the current, with a rising gale. 
Still set them onwards to the welcome shore. 

Like Charon's bark of spectres, dull and pale; sis 

Their living freight was now reduced to four. 

And three dead, whom their strength could not avail 
To heave into the deep with those before. 

Though the two sharks still followed them, and dashed 

The spray into their faces as they splashed. 520 



THE SHIPWRECK 177 

LXVI 

Famine, despair, cold, thirst, and heat, liad done 
Their work on them by turns, and thinned them to 

Such things, a mother had not known her son 
Amidst the skeletons of that gaunt crew; 

By night chilled, by day scorched, thus one by one 525 

They perished, until withered to these few, 

But chiefly by a species of self-slaughter. 

In washing down Pedrillo with salt water. 



LXVII 

As they drew nigh the land, which now was seen 

Unequal in its aspect here and there, 530 

They felt the freshness of its growing green, 

That waved in forest tops, and smoothed the air, 

And fell upon their glazed eyes like a screen 

From glistening waves, and skies so hot and bare — 

Lovely seemed any object that should sweep 535 

Away the vast, salt, dread, eternal deep. 



LXVIII 

The shore looked w^ild, without a trace of man. 

And girt by formidable waves; but they 
Were mad for land, and thus their course they ran, 

Though right ahead the roaring breakers lay: 640 

A reef between them also now began 

To show its boiling surf and bounding spray; 
But finding no place for their landing better, 
Thev ran the boat for shore — and overset her. 



178 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

LXIX 

But in his native stream, the Guadalquivir, 645 

Juan to lave his youthful limbs was wont; 
And having learnt to swim in that sweet river, 

Had often turned the art to some account: 
A better swimmer you could scarce see ever. 

He could, perhaps, have passed the Hellespont, 550 

As once (a feat on which ourselves we prided) 
Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did. 



LXX 

So here, though faint, emaciated, and stark. 
He buoyed his boyish limbs, and strove to ply 

With the quick wave, and gain, ere it was dark, 555 

The beach which lay before him, high and dry: 

The greatest danger here was from a shark. 
That carried off his neighbor by the thigh; 

As for the other two, they could not swim. 

So nobody arrived on shore but him. 560 



LXXI 

Nor yet had he arrived but for the oar. 
Which, providentially for him, was washed 

Just as his feeble arms could strike no more. 
And the hard wave overwhelmed him as 'twas dashed 

Within his grasp; he clung to it, and sore 565 

The waters beat while he thereto was lashed; 

At last, with swimming, wading, scrambling, he 

Rolled on the beach, half senseless, from the sea. 



THE SHIPWRECK 179 

LXXII 

There, breathless, with his digging nails he clung 

Fast to the sand, lest the returning wave, 570 

From whose reluctant roar his life he wrung. 
Should suck him back to her insatiate grave: 

And there he lay full length, where he was flung, 
Before the entrance of a cliff-worn cave. 

With just enough of life to feel its pain, 575 

And deem that it was saved, perhaps, in vain. 



LXXIII 

With slow and staggering effort he arose. 

But sunk again upon his bleeding knee 
And quivering hand; and then he looked for those 

Who long had been his mates upon the sea; 580 

But none of them appeared to share his woes. 

Save one, a corpse, from out the famished three. 
Who died two days before, and now had found 
An unknown barren beach for burial ground. 



LXXIV 

And as he gazed, his dizzy brain spun fast, 585 

And down he sunk; and as he sunk, the sand 

Swam round and round, and all his senses passed: 
He fell upon his side, and his stretched hand 

Drooped dripping on the oar (their jury-mast) ; 

And, like a withered lily, on the land 590 

His slender frame and palHd aspect lay. 

As fair a thing as e'er was formed of clay. 



THE ISLES OF GREECE 

FROM THE THIRD CANTO OF 
"DON JUAN" 



The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece I 
Where burning Sappho loved and sung. 

Where grew the arts of war and peace, — 
Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung! 

Eternal summer gilds them yet. 

But all, except their sun, is set. 



The Scian and the Teian muse. 

The hero's harp, the lover's lute. 
Have found the fame your shores refuse; 

Their place of birth alone is mute lo 

To sounds which echo further west 
Than your sires' " Islands of the Blest." 

Ill 

The mountains look on Marathon — 

And Marathon looks on the sea; 
And musing there an hour alone, is 

I dreamed that Greece might still be free; 
For, standing on the Persians' grave, 
I could not deem myself a slave. 
180 



THE ISLES OF GREECE 181 

IV 

A king sate on the rocky brow 

Which looks o'er sea-born Salaniis; 20 

And ships, by thousands, lay below. 

And men in nations; — all were his! 
He counted them at break of day — 
And when the sun set where were they? 



And where are they? and where art thou, 25 

My country? On thy voiceless shore 

The heroic lay is tuneless now — 
The heroic bosom beats no more! 

And must thy lyre, so long divine, 

Degenerate into hands like mine? 30 

VI 

*Tis something, in the dearth of fame. 
Though linked among a fettered race. 

To feel at least a patriot's shame. 
Even as I sing, sulTuse my face: 

For what is left the poet here? 35 

For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 

VII 

Must we but weep o'er days more blest? 

Must we but blush ? — Our fathers bled. 
Earth! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead! 40 

Of the three hundred grant but three. 
To make a new Thermopylae! 



182 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

VIII 

What, silent still ? and silent all ? 

Ah I no; — the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 45 

And answer, "Let one living head, 
But one, arise — we come, we come!" 
'Tis but the living who are dumb. 

IX 

In vain — in vain: strike other chords: 

Fill high the cup with Samian wine! so 

Leave battles to the Turkish hordes. 
And shed the blood of Scio's vine! 

Hark! rising to the ignoble call — 

How answers each bold Bacchanal! 



You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, 65 

Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? 

Of two such lessons, why forget 
The nobler and the manlier one? 

You have the letters Cadmus gave — 

Think ye he meant them for a slave ? 60 

XI 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 

We will not think of themes like these! 
It made Anacreon's song divine: 

He served — but served Polycrates — 
A tyrant; but our masters then 65 

Were still, at least, our countrymen. 



THE ISLES OF GREECE 183 

XII 

The tyrant of the Chersonese 

Was freedom's best and bravest friend; 

That tyrant was Miltiades! 
Oh! that the present hour would lend 70 

Another despot of the kind! 

Such chains as his were sure to bind. 

XIII 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 

On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore. 
Exists the remnant of a line 75 

Such as the Doric mothers bore; 
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown. 
The Heracleidan blood might own. 

XIV 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 

They have a king who buys and sells: so 

In native swords and native ranks. 
The only hope of courage dwells; 

But Turkish force and Latin fraud 

Would break your shield, however broad. 

XV 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 85 

Our virgins dance beneath the shade — 

I see their glorious black eyes shine; 
But, gazing on each glowing maid. 

My own the burning tear-drop laves. 

To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 90 



184 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

XVI 

Place me on Sunium's marble steep, 
Where nothing, save the waves and I, 

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; 
There, swan-like, let me sing and die! 

A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 95 

Dash down yon cup of Samian winel 



NOTES 

The purpose of this httle volume is to present some of the 
best of Byron's poetry. Besides the poems printed here, we 
should strongly recommend the interested student to read the 
Third Canto of Childe Harold, and the stirring drama of Man- 
fred. The best way to enjoy poetry is to read it, and to read 
it aloud. This is especially true of Byron, whose rhetorical 
quality has never been surpassed. He was an orator in verse, 
leaving upon the reader the impression of an earnest speaker 
pleading for a cause. 

The notes have been prepared to encourage the reader to 
read and think for himself, not with the object of furnishing all 
the information or a definite interpretation. 

Notes by Byron, Moore, Hobhouse, or E. H. Coleridge are 
signed with their respective initials, B., or M., or H., or E. H. C. 

ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY 

On the dissolution of the monasteries by Henry VIII, the 
priory of Newstead, Nottinghamshire, was granted to " Sir 
John Byron, the Little, with the great beard." It remained 
the seat of the family till Byron sold it in 1817. 

Ossian. The reputed Highland bard whose alleged work 
Macpherson rendered in English prose. 

Page 3, Line 11. — Askalon. An ancient city of Syria. 

— Horistan Castle. An ancient seat of the Byron family; in 
Derbyshire. 

13. — Cressy. The scene of the victory of Edward III over 
the French in 1346. 

4, 17. — Marston Moor, where, in 1644, the followers of Charles 
I were defeated by Cromwell. 

— Rupert. Prince Rupert, nephew of Charles I and one 
of the leaders of the royal army. 

ON A DISTANT VIEW OF HARROW 

Byron entered Harrow, the famous boys' school near Lon- 
don, in 1801 and remained till 1805. Many interesting stories 
185 



180 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

are told of his life at Harrow, his affection for his friends, 
especially Sir Robert Peel, his love of fighting, his sports, his 
pride of family, his carelessness in pursuing his work as pupil. 
A tomb is still pointed out in the churchyard as " Byron's 
Tomb," where, tradition says, "he used to sit for hours wrapt 
up in thought." 

Oh ! mihi. Ah, if Jove only brought back the years past. 

6, 10.— fought. "I think I lost but one battle out of 
seven." (B.) 

18. — Zanga, Alonzo. Characters in Young's drama. The 
Revenge. " For the display of his declamatory powers, on the 
speech-days, he selected always the most vehement passages, 
such as the speech of Zanga over the body of Alonzo and Lear's 
address to the storm." 

6, 20. — Mossop. Henry Mossop (1729-1773), a contempo- 
rary of Garrick, famous for his performance of Zanga in 
Young's tragedy. 

24.— Garrick. David Garrick, the celebrated English actor 
(1716-1779). 

29. — Ida. A fanciful name for Harrow, because on Mount 
Ida the infant Jupiter was taught. 

LACHIN Y GAIR 

" Lachin y Gair, or, as it is pronounced in the Erse, Loch 
na Garr, towers proudly pre-eminent in the Northern High- 
lands, near Invercauld. One of our modern tourists mentions 
it as the highest mountain, perhaps, in Great Britain. Be this 
as it may, it is certainly one of the most sublime and pictur- 
esque amongst our "Caledonian Alps." Its appearance is of 
a dusky hue, but the summit is the seat of eternal snows. Near 
Lachin y Gair I spent some of the early part of my life, the rec- 
ollection of which has given birth to these stanzas." (B.) 
" From this period I date my love of mountainous countries." 
(B.) 

7, 10. — plaid. "This word is erroneously pronounced plod; 
the proper pronunciation (according to the Scotch) is shown 
by the orthography." (B.) 

8, 25. — Ill-starred. "I allude here to my maternal ancestors, 
'the Gordons,' many of whom fought for the unfortunate 
Prince Charles, better known by the name of the Pretender. 
This branch was nearly allied by blood, as well as attachment, 



NOTES IS? 

to the Stuarts. George, the second Earl of Huntly, mairicd 
the Princess Annabella Stuart, daughter of James the L'irst 
of Scotland. By her he left four sons: the third, Sir William 
Gordon, I have the honor to claim. as one of my progenitors." 
(B.) 

27. — CuUoden. "Whether any perished in the battle of Cul- 
loden, I am not certain; but as many fell in the insurrection, 
I have used the name of the principal action, 'pars pro toto.'" 
(B.) 

30. — Braemar. A tract of the Highlands so called. There 
is also a Castle of Braemar. (B.) 

THE PRAYER OF NATURE 

These stanzas were first published in Moore's Letters and 
Journals of Lord Byron, 1830. Moore says it was "written in 
December, 1806, when he was not yet nineteen years old. It 
contains, as will be seen, his religious creed at that period and 
shows how early the struggle between natural piety and 
doubt began in his mind." 

STANZAS COMPOSED DURING A THUNDER- 
STORM 

"Composed October 11, 1809, during the night in a thunder- 
storm when the guides had lost the road to Zitza in Albania. 
Hobhouse, who had ridden on before the party and arrived 
at Zitza just as the evening set in, describes the thunder as roll- 
ing 'without intermission. The tempest was altogether terrific 
and worthy of the Grecian Jove.' Lord Byron, with the priest 
and the servants, did not enter our hut before three in the morn- 
ing. I now learnt from him that they had lost their way and, 
after wandering up and down in total ignorance of their position, 
had at last stopped near some Turkish tombstones and a torrent 
which they saw by the flashes of lightning. They had been thus 
exposed for nine hours." (M.) 

13, 36. — Florence. A Mrs. Spencer Smith, an English lady 
whom Byron met at Malta in the summer of 1809. 

41. — Siroc. — Sirocco, an oppressive warm wind from Africa. 

14, 57. — Calypso's Isles. Calypso was a sea nymph on whose 
island Odysseus was cast ashore and for some time held, on 
his journey home from Troy. 



188 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 



ADDRESS SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY- 
LANE THEATRE 

These lines were first published in the Morning Chronicle, 
October 12, 1812. 

The famous theatre, named from the street on which it 
stood, was opened in 1663. 

15, 10. — Shake its red shadow. A reference to the burning 
of the theatre, February 24, 1809. "By and by the best view 
of the said fire (which I myself saw from a housetop in Covent 
Garden) was at Westminster Bridge, from the reflection on the 
Thames." — From Byron's Letter. 

16, 31. — Siddons. The celebrated Enghsh actress (1755- 
1831). 

34. — Roscius. The famous actor of comedy in ancient Rome; 
instructor and friend of Cicero. 

40. — Menander. The Athenian comic poet who lived in the 
fourth century before Christ. 

43.— Brinsley. Richard Brinsley Sheridan (1751-1816), 
dramatist, orator and pohtician, who wrote The Rivals and 
The School for Scandal. 

46. — Banquo. In Shakespeare's Macbeth; he was murdered 
by the aspiring Macbeth. 

HEBREW MELODIES 

She Walks in Beauty and all those which follow including 
A Spirit Passed Before Me are known as the Hebrew Melodies. 
They appeared with the following advertisement: 

"The subsequent poems were written at the request of my 
friend, the Hon. Douglas Kinnaird, for a selection of Hebrew 
Melodies and have been published, with the music, arranged 
by Mr. Braham and Mr. Nathan, January 1815." They were 
written in 1813, 1814, 1815. The poems express in a simple 
and beautiful manner some of the best known incidents of 
the Old Testament. Besides showing the author's familiarity 
with the lyrics and narratives of the Bible, they breathe the 
sincere sympathy which he had for the Hebrew people. The 
diction is simple, the versification is skilful. Each little poem 
is complete in itself and shows an admirable restraint of feeling. 



NOTES IS!) 

The notes which follow arc intended to be helpful in direct- 
ing the reader to the original. In each case the corresponding 
song or narrative should he read. Any of the following notes 
which are cjuotcd and which are attributed to no other source 
have beem taken from I. Nathan's early edition of the Melo- 
dies, entitled Fugitive Pieces, 1829. 

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY 

These hnes were written June 12, 1814. They were inspired 
by Byron's cousin, Miss Wilmot, whom the poet saw for the 
first time at a party on the previous evening. 

THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL SWEPT 

21, 2. — The King of men. David, the famous and beloved 
King of Israel. He lived about 1000 B. C. The harp was his 
favorite instrument and was used by him on all great and joy- 
ous occasions. The poem is a splendid tribute to the powers of 
music which have been appreciated by every nation. In con- 
nection ^vith these lines, one should read the poem Saul by 
Robert Browning. 

I. Nathan says of the poem in its present form: "When 
his Lordship put the copy into my hand, it terminated thus — 

" ' Its sound aspired to Heaven and there abode.' 

This, however, did not complete the verse and I wished him to 
help out the melody. 'Why, I have sent you to Heaven, it 
would be difficult to go further.' My attention for a few mo- 
ments was called to some other person, and his Lordship, whom 
I had hardly missed, exclaimed, ' Here, Nathan, I have brought 
you down again,' and immediately presented me the beautiful 
and sublime lines which conclude the melody." 

THE WILD GAZELLE 

This poem describes simply and beautifully the loss to Judah 
of her people who are scattered over the face of the earth. 
Byron, always full of sympathy with a down-trodden peo- 
ple, lamented especially the fate of the Jews. Moreover, the 
lines describe vividly the grace and beauty of the gazelle. He 



190 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

was fond of animals and wrote of them often and sympatheti- 
cally. 

Explain the words Judah, Salem. What is the reference to 
the cedars of Lebanon ? Explain the last line of the poem. 

OH! WEEP FOR THOSE 

In this poem is depicted the desolate state of the Jewish na- 
tion, as exiles in a foreign country but still remembering Zion. 
Byron never wrote a finer little poem than this. 

ON JORDAN'S BANKS 

It will be observed that Byron protests vehemently against 
the possession of the Holy Land by the hostile Mohammedan 
Turks. 

What does Baal-adorer mean? Explain the Biblical allusions 
in the second stanza. 

JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER 

Chapter XI of the Book of Judges contains the story of the 
sacrifice of the daughter of Jephtha. Byron's poem presents 
her as speaking. 

What is the effect upon the reader of the incident presented 
in this way? 

OH! SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM 

Published in the Examiner, April 23, 1815. Perhaps these 
lines contain a remembrance of the mysterious Thyrza, several 
times mentioned by Byron but never quite identified. In his 
large edition of Byron's poems, Mr. E. H. Coleridge prints a note 
communicated to him regarding Thyrza. "There can be no 
doubt that Lord Byron referred to Thyrza in conversation with 
Lady Byron and probably also with Mrs. Leigh, as a young girl 
who had existed and the date of whose death almost coincided 
with Lord Byron's landing in England in 1811. On one occa- 
sion he showed Lady Byron a beautiful tress of hair which she 
understood to be Thyrza's. He said he had never mentioned 
her name and now that she was gone his breast was the sole 
depository of that secret." 



NOTES 191 

The sentiment of the poem is very true and has been often 
expressed by the poets, especially by Tennyson in his In Memo- 



MY SOUL IS DARK 

It was often reported that Byron's mind was actually impaired. 
He referred to the rumor and " declared that he would try how 
a madman could write : seizing the pen with eagerness, he for a 
moment fixed his eyes in majestic wildness on vacancy, when 
like a flash of inspiration, without erasing a single word, the 
above verses were the result." 

I SAW THEE WEEP 
This poem shows how well Byron observed the human face. 

THY DAYS ARE DONE 

"Lord Byron in this melody has some reference to a fallen 
warrior, whose deeds remain a monument to his memory, and 
though dead to the world he still leaves a lasting impression 
on the minds of the living," Byron once remarked that "had 
Napoleon died on the field at Waterloo, his end would have 
been more in unison with his former intrepid career." 

SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST BATTLE 

These lines are supposed to have been spoken by Saul before 
his battle with the Philistines. The character of Saul as king 
and valiant warrior is prominent. Saul shows the same grim 
determination that made our Anglo-Saxon ancestors loyal unto 
death to their tribal chiefs. 

SAUL 

The suggestion for these lines came from the Old Testament, 
1 Samuel, chapter xxviii. Saul, the King of Israel, fell in battle 
against the Philistines. The reference to thy son is to Jona- 
than, the beloved friend of David. Samuel was the famous 
prophet who was something of a primitive king-maker. 

It will be interesting to read Browning's poem Said in connec- 



192 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

tion with the lines of Byron. Like Walter Scott, Byron had 
special power in describing heroic characters and recounting 
heroic events. 

ALL IS VANITY 

"Lord Byron in these beautiful verses treats in a masterly 
manner the varieties and transient uncertainty of human en- 
joyments. He commences with the young man launching into 
life, with all that wealth and splendor can bestow." 

" The second is no less striking; when the middle stage of life 
commences, we are still addicted to the pleasure of the past 
and when the shadows of old age assail us at a distance, the 
noble poet recoils to the past and wishes rather to recede than 
to advance." 

WHEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS SUFFERING CLAY 

This poem has sometimes been mentioned to show that 
Byron was irreligious. Is it not rather a very noble sentiment 
expressing a real question? Here he seems to rise above de- 
clamatory and descriptive verse to a sincere personal yearning 
for the answer to a great question. The poem is full of beauty 
and suggestion. 

VISION OF BELSHAZZAR 

For the original of the incident of this poem, the reader should 
turn to the fifth chapter of the Book of Daniel. According to 
the Old Testament account, Belshazzar was the son of Nebu- 
chadnezzar and the last king of Babylonia. 

33, 2. — Satraps. Governors of Persian provinces. It will be 
remembered that Chaldea was the country of ancient times 
which was much given to the study of the stars and of history. 

The poem illustrates splendidly Byron's skill in telhng im- 
pressively a heroic incident. We are not shown the feelings of 
the king, we see only the actions of the king. 

SUN OF THE SLEEPLESS 

What is the sun of the sleepless ? 

Why tearful beam? Explain the words " but warms not with 
its powerless rays." 



NOTES 1!):] 



WERE THY BOSOM AS FALSE AS THOU DEEM'ST 
IT TO BE 

"Lord Byron often observed that notwithstanding the op- 
pressed state of the Jewish nation, though dispersed in every 
cHmate, without a fixed country, yet they remain uncontani- 
inated by the creed of any other nation and retain their orig- 
inal forms of worship with their primitive laws and bonds of 



HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE 

"Mariamne, the wife of Herod, falHng under the suspicion 
of infideHty, was put to death by his order. Ever after, 
Herod was haunted by the image of the murdered Mariamne, 
until disorder of the mind brought on disorder of the body, 
which led to temporary derangement." — Milman's History 
of the Jews. 

ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF 
JERUSALEM BY TITUS 

In the year 70 A. D. Jerusalem was captured by the Romans 
under Titus. 

"In the composition of the foregoing stanzas, he professed 
to me that he had always considered the fall of Jerusalem as 
the most remarkable event of all history, 'for (in his own words) 
who can behold the entire destruction of that mighty pile, the 
desolate wanderings of its inhabitants, and compare these posi- 
tive occurrences with the distant prophecies which foreran 
them and be an infidel?'" 

BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON WE SAT DOWN 
AND WEPT 

These lines were written January 15, 1813. The similarity 
between this poem and the next will be immediately recognized. 

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB 

This poem was written February 17, 1815. For the original 
of the incident, the reader should turn to the eighteenth and 
nineteenth chapters of 2 Kings. 



lot BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

This poem has always been one of the most popular of Byron's 
short poems. Its simplicity, striking similes, dignified metre 
and vivid descriptions may largely account for so many people 
Ukjng the poem. 

40, 1.— The Assyrian. Sennacherib, one of the great Assyrian 
rulers. * He was engaged in many wars against the Babylonians. 

41, 21. — Ashur. Assyria. 

A SPIRIT PASSED BEFORE ME 
The suggestion for this poem came from Job iv, 15-21. 



PROMETHEUS 

The character of Prometheus early attracted Byron, whose 
first exercise at Harrow was a paraphrase from the chorus of 
PrometJieus Vinctus by ^schylus. "The Prometheus, if not 
exactly my plan, has always been so much in my head, that 1 
can easily conceive its influence over all or anything that I have 
written." Mr. E. H. Coleridge says of the poet, ''The concep- 
tion of an immortal sufferer, at once beneficent and defiant, 
appealed alike to his passions and his convictions and awoke 
a pecuhar enthusiasm. His poems abound with allusions to 
the hero and the legend." 

TO THOMAS MOORE 

"To Thomas Moore, July 10, 1817. This should have been 
written fifteen months ago— the first stanza was. I am just 
come out from an hour's swim in the Adriatic, and I write to 
you with a black-eyed Venetian girl before me, reading Boccac- 
cio." 

ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH 
YEAR 

Written January 22, 1824. Byron died on the 19th of the 
following April. He said as he came from his bedroom. You 
were complaining the other day that I never write any poetry 
now. This is my birthday and I have just finished something 
which I think is better than what I usually write." 



NOTES 195 



CHILDE HAROLD, CANTO THE FOURTH 

Visto ho Toscana, Lombardia. Romagna, 
Quel Monte che divide, e auel che serra 
Italia, e un mare e I'altro, cne la bagna. 

— Ariosto, i^alira Hi. 

PREFACE 

Venice, January 2, 1818. 

TO 

John Hobhouse, Esq., a.m., f.r.s. 
&c. &c. &c. 

MY DEAR HOBHOUSE, 

After an interval of eight years between the composition 
of the first and last cantos of Childe Harold, the conclusion 
of the poem is about to be submitted to the pubhc. In part- 
ing with so old a friend, it is not extraordinary that I should 
recur to one still older and better — to one who has beheld 
the birth and death of the other, and to whom I am far more 
indebted for the social advantages of an enlightened friendship, 
than — though not ungrateful — I can, or could be, to Childe 
Harold, for any public favor reflected through the poem on the 
poet, — to one whom I have known long and accompanied far, 
whom I have found wakeful over my sickness and kind in my 
sorrow, glad in my prosperity and firm in my adversity, true 
in counsel and trusty in peril, — to a friend often tried and never 
found wanting; — to yourself. 

In so doing, I recur from fiction to truth; and in dedicat- 
ing to you, in its complete, or at least concluded state, a poeti- 
cal work which is the longest, the most thoughtful and com- 
prehensive of my compositions, I wish to do honor to myself 
by the record of many years' intimacy with a man of learning, 
of talent, of steadiness, and of honor. It is not for minds like 
ours to give or to receive flattery; yet the praises of sincerity 
have ever been permitted to the voice of friendship; and it is 
not for you, nor even for others, but to relieve a heart which 
has not elsewhere, or lately, been so much accustomed to the 
encounter of good-will as to withstand the shock firmly, that I 
thus attempt to commemorate your good qualities, or rather 
the advantages which I have derived from their exertion. 
Even the recurrence of the date of this letter, the anniversary 
of the most unfortunate day of my past existence, but which 



196 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

cannot poison my future while I retain the resource of your 
friendship, and of my own faculties, will henceforth have a 
more agreeable recollection for both, inasmuch as it will re- 
mind us of this my attempt to thank you for an indefatigable 
regard, such as few men have experienced, and no one could 
experience without thinking better of his species and of himself. 

It has been our fortune to traverse together, at various periods, 
the countries of chivalry, history, and fable — Spain, Greece, 
Asia Minor, and Italy; and what Athens and Constantinople 
were to us a few years ago, Venice and Rome have been more 
recently. The poem also, or the pilgrim, or both, have ac- 
companied me from first to last; and perhaps it may be a par- 
donable vanity which induces me to reflect with complacency 
on a composition which in some degree connects me with the 
spot where it was produced, and the objects it would fain de- 
scribe; and however unworthy it may be deemed of those magi- 
cal and memorable abodes, however short it may fall of our 
distant conceptions and immediate impressions, yet as a mark 
of respect for what is venerable, and of feeling for what is 
glorious, it has been to me a source of pleasure in the produc- 
tion, and I part with it with a kind of regret, which I hardly 
suspected that events could have left me for imaginary objects. 

With regard to the conduct of the last canto, there will be 
found less of the pilgrim than in any of the preceding, and 
that little slightly, if at all, separated from the author speaking 
in his own person. The fact is, that I had become weary of 
drawing a line which every one seemed determined not to per- 
ceive: like the Chinese in Goldsmith's Citizen of the World, 
whom nobody would believe to be a Chinese, it was in vain that 
I asserted, and imagined that I had drawn, a distinction be- 
tween the author and the pilgrim; and the very anxiety to 
preserve this difference, and disappointment at finding it un- 
availing, so far crushed my efforts in the composition, that I 
determined to abandon it altogether — and have done so. The 
opinions which have been, or may be, formed on that subject, 
are now a matter of indifference; the work is to depend on itself, 
and not on the writer; and the author, who has no resources 
in his own mind beyond the reputation, transient or permanent, 
which is to arise from his literary efforts, deserves the fate of 
authors. 

In the course of the following Canto it was my intention, 
either in the text or in the notes, to have touched upon the 



NOTES 197 

present state of Italian literature, and perhaps of manners. 
But the text, within the Hmits I proposed, I soon found hardly 
sufficient for the labyrinth of external objects and the conse- 
quent reflections; and for the whole of the notes, excepting a 
few of the shortest, I am indebted to yourself, and these were 
necessarily limited to the elucidation of the text. 

It is also a delicate, and no very grateful task, to dissert 
upon the literature and manners of a nation so dissimilar; and 
requires an attention and impartiality which would induce us 
— though perhaps no inattentive observers, nor ignorant of the 
language or customs of the people amongst whom we have re- 
cently abode — to distrust, or at least defer our judgment, and 
more narrowly examine our information. The state of liter- 
aiy, as well as pohtical party, appears to run, or to have run, 
so high, that for a stranger to steer impartially between them 
is next to impossible. It may be enough, then, at least for 
my purpose, to quote from their own beautiful language — 
" Mi pare che in un paese tutto poetico, che vanta la lingua la 
piii nobile ed insieme la piii dolce, tutte tutte le vie diverse si 
possono tentare, e che sinche la patria di Alfieri e di Monti non 
ha perduto I'antico valore, in tutte essa dovrebbe essere la 
prima." Italy has great names still — Canova, Monti, Ugo 
Foscolo, Pindemonti, Visconti, Morelli, Cicognara, Albrizzi, 
Mezzophanti, Mai, Mustoxidi, AgHetti, and Vacca, will secure 
to the present generation an honorable place in most of the 
departments of Art, Science, and Belles Lettres; and in some 
the very highest — Europe— the World — has but one Canova. 

It has been somewhere said by Alfieri, that " La pianta uomo 
nasce piii robusta in Itaha che in qualunque altra terra — e che 
gh stessi atroci delitti che vi si commettono ne sono una prova." 
Without subscribing to the latter part of his proposition — a 
dangerous doctrine, the truth of which may be disputed on 
better grounds, namely, that the Italians are in no respect 
more ferocious than their neighbors — that man must be wilfully 
blind, or ignorantly heedless, who is not struck with the extraor- 
dinary capacity of this people, or, if such a word be admissible, 
their capabilities, the facility of their acquisitions, the rapidity 
of their conceptions, the fire of their genius, their sense of beauty, 
and amidst all the disadvantages of repeated revolutions, the 
desolation of battles, and the despair of ages, their still un- 
quenched "longing after immortality" — the immortality of 
independence. And when we ourselves, in riding round the 



198 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

walls of Rome, heard the simple lament of the laborers' chorus, 
"Roma! Roma! Roma! Roma non e piu come era prima," 
it was difficult not to contrast this melancholy dirge with the 
bacchanal roar of the songs of exultation, still yelled from the 
London taverns, over the carnage of Mont St. Jean, and the 
betrayal of Genoa, of Italy, of France, and of the world, by 
men whose conduct you yourseK have exposed in a work worthy 
of the better days of our history. For me, — 

*' Non movero mai corda 

'\Ove la turba di sue ciance assorda." 

What Italy has gained by the late transfer of nations, it 
were useless for Englishmen to inquire, till it becomes ascer- 
tained that England has acquired something more than a per- 
manent army and a suspended Habeas Corpus; it is enough for 
them to look at home. For what they have done abroad, and 
especially in the South, "Verily they will have their reward," 
and at no very distant period. 

Wishing you, my dear Hobhouse, a safe and agreeable re- 
turn to that country whose real welfare can be dearer to none 
than to yourself, I dedicate to you this poem in its completed 
state; and repeat once more how truly I am ever 

Your obliged 
And affectionate friend, 

Byron. 

In the study of The Fourth Canto, the student should with his 
first rapid reading group the stanzas into the main divisions of 
the poet's survey of Italy and give chapter headings, as it were, 
to the parts of the vision of Italy that Byron here displays. 

In the second reading the study should be detailed. 

49, 1. — the Bridge of Sighs leads from the Ducal Palace, or 
Palace of the Doges, to the Prison of the State. 

8. — winged Lion. The symbol of Venice is the Lion of St. 
Mark. 

10. — Cybele. "'The mother of the Goddesses' was repre- 
sented as wearing a mural crown. Venice with her train of 
proud towers is the earth-goddess Cybele, having 'suffered a 
sea-change.'" (E. H. C.) The accent is usually Cy'hele. 

19. — Tasso's echoes. "The gondoliers used to sing alternate 
stanzas of the Gerusalemme Liberata, capping each other like 



NOTES 1!)!) 

the shepherds in the Bucolics. The rival reciters were some- 
times attached to tlie same gondola; but often the response 
came from a passing gondolier, a stranger to the singer who chal- 
lenged the contest." (E. H. C.) The Gerusalcmme Liberata 
(Jerusalem Delivered) is the most famous poem of the celebrated 
Italian, Toniuato Tasso (1544-1595). See xxxvi jj. 

50, 31. — dogeless. The office of a doge (duke) was estab- 
lished as the highest office in Venice about 700 A. D. and re- 
mained until Venice was conquered by Napoleon in 1797. 

33. — the Rialto. The chief bridge of Venice, spanning the 
Grand Canal. 

— In what plays of Shakespeare do these names appear? 
The Rialto meant to Shakespeare, however, not the Bridge but 
the oldest part of Venice, containing the Exchange. 

34. — Pierre. The hero of a famous seventeenth century 
tragedy by Otway, Veiiice Preserved. 

51, 64. — in strange eyes, etc. Because of much adverse 
criticism Byron abandoned England in 1816. See biographical 
Introduction. Byron once wrote to Murray, "I am sure my 
bones would not rest in an English grave, nor my clay mix with 
the earth of that country." 

52, 82. — the temple. Westminster Abbey, from which even 
Byron's monument was excluded, or St. Paul's Cathedral. 

85. — Spartan's epitaph. The answer of the mother of Bras- 
idas, the Lacedemonian general, to the strangers who praised 
the memory of her son. 

93. — The Bucentaur. The state barge in which on Ascension 
Day the Doge of Venice used to wed the Adriatic by dropping 
a ring into it. It was dismantled by the French in 1797, 

95. — St. Mark . . . lion. It was customary for cities and 
countries to have their patron saints, e. g., Venice, St. Mark; 
France, St. Denis; Ireland, St. Patrick; England, St. George. 
The figure of the winged lion surmounts a pillar on the Piazzetta. 

97. — Emperor sued. Frederick Barbarossa, the most noted 
emperor of the Holy Roman Empire. In 1183 by the Treaty of 
Constance he was compelled to renounce all the right to rule 
over certain Italian cities for which he had fought for thirty 
years. It was at Venice that he was reconciled to the pope. 

53, 100. — The Swabian. Barbarossa. In 1814 Venice was 
restored to Austria, under whom it remained for half a century. 

103. — sceptred cities. The old-time commonwealths, Venice, 
Florence, Genoa, Pisa. 



200 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

106. — lauwine. Avalanche. (Ger.) 

107. — Dandolo. Enrico Dandolo was elected Doge in 1192 
at the age of eighty-five years. When he commanded the Vene- 
tians at the taking of Constantinople (Byzantium) he was con- 
sequently ninety-seven years of age. (H.) 

109. — steeds of brass. Four bronze horses over the main 
portal of St. Mark's. 

111. — Doria's menace. In 1319 when the Genoese fought 
with the Venetians and overcame them, the Genoese commander 
Doria sent word to the vanquished Venetians that they should 
not have peace " until we have first put a rein upon those un- 
bridled horses of yours that are upon the porch of your evange- 
list St. Mark." 

114. — Sinks. It will be remembered that the great tower, 
the Campanile, fell a few years ago. At various times men 
have predicted that the city of Venice would disappear into the 
sea. 

118. — Tyre, the magnificent city of Phoenicia, was built upon 
islands. 

119. — by- word. The nickname for the Venetians was Panta- 
loon — from St. Pantaleon, "Plant the Lion," the first patron 
saint of Venice. 

123.— Ottomite. The Ottoman Turk. 

124.— Candia. "On the twenty-ninth of September (1669), 
Candia and the island of Candia, passed away from Venice after 
a defence which lasted twenty-five years." Troy withstood 
the Greeks ten years. 

125. — Lepanto. The Gulf of Lepanto was the scene of the 
defeat of the Turks by the Venetians, October 7, 1571. 

54, 136. — Athens' armies fell at Syracuse. Some of the 
Athenian captives were said to have been granted their free- 
dom if they would recite passages from Euripides (poet in 
the Attic [Athenian] dialect). Observe the vivid manner 
which Byron can use in portraying some past and imaginary 
scene. 

147. — choral memory. The remembrance kept fresh by song. 
151. — Ocean queen. The ancient name of Britain? Ob- 
serve Byron's liking for the formal figure, apostrophe. 

55, 158. — Otway. Thomas Otway wrote Venice Preserved, 
Mrs. Anne Radcliflfe, The Mysteries of Udolpho, Schiller, The 
Ghost-Seer, and Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice and 
Othello. Scenes from each of these are laid in Venice. 



NOTES 201 

172. — tannen. The German plural of tanne, "a species of fir 
peculiar to the Alps, which thrives in very rocky jjarts where 
scarcely soil sufficient for its nourishment can be found. On 
these spots it grows to a greater height than any other mountain 
tree." (B.) 

56, 200. — Comes a token. Compare Bishop Blougram's la- 
ment on the instability of faith — 

** Just when we axe safest, there's a sunset touch, 
A fa,ncy from a flower bell, some one's death, 
A chorus ending from Euripides, 
And that's enough for fifty hopes and fears." 

(Browning's Works.) (E. H. C.) 

58, 238. — Friuli's mountains. The Julian Alps which lie 
to the north of Trieste and north-east of Venice. 

240. — Iris of the West. "The above description may seem 
fantastical or exaggerated to those who have never seen an 
Oriental or an Italian sky, yet it is but a literal and hardly 
sufficient delineation of an August evening (the eighteenth) as 
contemplated in one of many rides along the banks of the Brenta, 
near La Mira." (B.) 

242. — Dian's crest. The symbol of Diana, the crescent moon. 

247.— Rhaetian hill. The Rhaetian Alps. 

250. — Brenta. — A river emptying into the lagoon of Venice, 
on the south. 

59, 262. — Arqua. Twelve miles from Padua; it holds the 
tomb of Petrarch. 

267. — raise a language. The dialect became through the 
Florentines, Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio, the standard of 
Italian speech. 

60, 307. — Ferrara. Twenty-seven miles from Bologna; it 
was the seat of the dukes of Este and the home of Tasso and 
Ariosto. 

311. Este (es'td). Este, a family long prominent in Ferrara. 

61, 317. — his cell. It is a fact that Torquato Tasso was an 
inmate of the hospital at Ferrara for almost eight years, but the 
causes, the character, and the place of his imprisonment have 
been subjects of legend and misrepresentation. (E. H. C.) 
Here Byron seems to believe the story that Tasso was impris- 
oned by Duke Alfonso of the Este family. 

339. — Cruscan quire. The Accademia della Crusca, estab- 
lished at Florence in 1582, did not approve of Tasso 's work; 
Boileau, the famous French critic, spoke of his work as tinsel. 



202 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

341. — his country's creaking lyre. It should be remembered 
that French poetry of Boileau's day had much of the formal 
character of English poetry in Pope's century, from which the 
Romantic movement was a revolt. 

62, 354. — Bards of Hell and Chivalry. Dante and Ariosto. 
355. — Tuscan father. Dante. 

357. — The Southern Scott. Ariosto, as poet of chivalry. 

361. — lightning rent. "Before the remains of Tasso were 
removed from the Benedictine church to the library of Ferrara, 
his bust, which surmounted the tomb, was struck by lightning, 
and a crown of laurels melted away," (H.) 

368. — The lightning sanctifies. A Roman superstition. 

63, 370. — Italia, etc. A free translation of a sonnet by Fil- 
icaja. 

389. — Roman friend. "The celebrated letter of Servius Sul- 
picius to Cicero on the death of his daughter describes as it 
then was and now is, a path which I often traced in Greece, 
both by sea and land, in different journeys and voyages: 'On 
my return from Asia, as I was sailing from Aequia towards 
Megara I began to contemplate the prospect of the countries 
around me. Aequia was behind, Megara before me, Piraeus 
on the right, Corinth on the left; all which towns, once famous 
and flourishing, now lie overturned and buried in their ruins. 
Upon this sight, I could not but think presently within myself, 
Alas! how do we poor mortals fret and vex ourselves if any of 
our friends happen to die or be killed, whose life is yet so short, 
when the carcasses of so many noble cities lie here exposed be- 
fore me in one view.'" (B.) 

392. — Megara. A village, once a city, near Athens, iEgina 
is an island to the N. E. of Athens, Piraeus is the port of 
Athens. 

65, 425. — Etrurian Athens. Florence, capital of Tuscany, 
anciently Etruria. 

433. — The Goddess. The statue of Venus de Medici in the 
Uffizi Gallery in Florence. 

450. — Dardan Shepherd. During the nuptials of Peleus and 
Thetis, Eris threw a golden apple among the marriage guests 
with the inscription, "To the fairest." A dispute arose be- 
tween Hera, Aphrodite, and Athene over the apple, and Zeus 
ordered Hermes to take the goddesses to Paris who was tend- 
ing his flocks on Mt. Gargarus and who would award the prize. 



NOTES 2():J 

To influence his decision Hera offered liini power, Athene mar- 
tial glory, Aphrodite the most beautiful woman. He awarded 
the apple to Aphrodite, who in return assisted Paris to carry- 
Helen off from Sparta and thus brought on the Trojan War. 

66, 452, — Anchises. Beloved by Venus; their son was 
iEneas, 

67, 478. — Santa Croce (krot^-shc). "The tombs of Mac- 
chiavelli, Michael Angelo, Galileo Galilei, and Alfieri make it the 
Westminster Abbey of Italy." (B.) 

495. — Canova. Celebrated Italian sculptor (1757-1822). 

496. — Etruscan three. Dante (1265-1321) author of The Di- 
vine Comedy; Petrarch (1304-1374) author of many sonnets and 
odes in honor of Laura; Boccaccio (1313-1375) author of the 
Decameron, a collection of one hundred stories. 

Dante was expelled from his native city, Florence, in the 
strife between Guelphs and Ghibellines and was buried at 
Ravenna. The grave of Petrarch at Arqua was desecrated by 
the Florentines. Boccaccio was buried at his birth-place, 
Certaldo. In the eighteenth century, " the stone that covered 
the tomb was broken and thrown aside as useless into the ad- 
joining cloisters." 

68, 507. — factions. Guelphs and Ghibellines. 

69, 532. — her pyramid. The tombs of the Medici. 

542. — dome of art. The picture galleries of the Uffizi and 
Pitti palaces. 

551. — Thrasimene (thras y me' ne). Here Hannibal, the Car- 
thagenian general, defeated the Romans, B. C. 217. 

70, 584. — Sanguinetto. "The bloody rivulet," flowing into 
the lake. 

71, 586. — Clitumnus. A river of Italy celebrated for its sanc- 
tity and beauty. Byron has said, "No book of travels has 
omitted to expatiate on the temple of the Clitumnus." (Line 
595). 

590. — milk-white steer. The waters of certain rivers were 
supposed to possess the quality of making the cattle which 
drank from them white. 

612. — disgust. Tastelessness. 

72, 614. — Velino. Near the mouth of the Velino River, Italy, 
are the famous Falls of Terni, celebrated for their beauty. 

620. — Phlegethon {fleg' e tlwn). "The flaming," in Greek 
mythology. One of the four rivers of Hades. 

73, 653. — lauwine. See 1. 106, n; the form is singular. 



204 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

654. — Jungfrau {yoong' frow). "The Virgin" — a mountain 
of the Bernese Alps; it was not ascended till 1811. 

656. — Mount Blanc. The highest mountain of the Alps; its 
most famous glacier is the Mer de glace. 

657. — Chimari. The Ceraunian Mountains of north-western 
Eph'us. 

658. — The Acroceraunian. "The thunder-smitten peaks" — 
the promontory of north-eastern Epirus; also the Ceraunian 
Mountains, of which it is a spur. 

659. — Parnassus. In Phocis, Greece; in Greek mythology, 
the haunt of Apollo and the Muses. 

662. — Ida. In Phrygia, Asia Minor, scene of the story of 
the choice of Paris. 

— Trojan's eye. The plains of Troy extended to the slopes 
of Mount Ida. 

663.— Athos. " The Holy Mount " at the end of the promon- 
tory on Athos, Thrace. 

— Olympus. On the borders of Macedonia and Thessaly; 
in Greek mythology, the home of the gods. 
— ^tna. In Sicily. 

— Atlas. The mountain range of Morocco, Algeria, and 
Tunis. 

665. — Soracte. The modern Mont Sant' Oreste, a de- 
tached mountain in Italy, near Rome, famous for a temple of 
Apollo on its summit. Horace celebrates its snows. 

666. — the lyric Roman. Horace, because of his Odes and 
Epodes. 

74, 674. — drilled dull lesson. "I wish to express that we 
become tired of the task before we comprehend the beauty; 
that we learn by rote before we can get by heart; that the fresh- 
ness is worn away and the future pleasure and advantage dead- 
ened and destroyed by the didactic anticipation, at an age when 
we can neither feel nor understand the power of compositions 
which it requires an acquaintance with life, as well as Latin and 
Greek, to relish or to reason upon." (B.) 

75, 699. — cypress. Because of its gloomy fohage it is sym- 
bolic of mourning. 

703. — Niobe. Niobe boasted of her twelve children and saw 
them all slain by anger of the gods. 

707. — Scipio's tomb. The tomb of the Scipios was discovered 
in 1780. The bones were collected and moved by Angelo 
Quirini to his villa at Padua. 



NOTES 205 

712.— The Goth. Alaric; Gcnseric; the Vitigcs; Totila. 

— the Christian. Churches were built out of the stones 
and decorations of old temples. 

716. — the Capitol. The hill on which the temple of Jupiter 
stood. 

76, 728. — Eureka. "I have it"; the cry of Archimedes in 
discovering a way to test the purity of the crown of Hiero of 
Syracuse. 

732. — Brutus. The head of the conspiracy which effected 
the death of Julius Caesar. 

734.— Tully. Marcus Tullius Cicero. 

— Virgil's lay. The Mneid, an epic glorifying the legends 
of the founding of Rome. 

735. — Livy. The greatest of Roman historians. 

739. — Fortune's wheel. One of the oldest symbols in liter- 
ature, signifying the instability of fortune. 

740. — Sylla. L. Cornelius Sulla, the victorious opponent of 
Marius and master of Rome. 

743. — eagles. The eagle was the emblem of Rome; the 
Roman standard was a gilt eagle borne on a lance. 

77, 759. — swept off senates. Cromwell dissolved the Long 
Parhament, 1553. 

764. — day of double victory. "On the third of September 
Cromwell gained the \ictory of Dunbar; a year afterward he 
obtained 'his crowning mercy ' of Worcester; a few years after, 
on the same day, which he had ever esteemed the most fortu- 
nate for him, he died." (B.) 

78, 775. — dread statue. The statue of Pompcy, now in the 
Spada palace, popularly supposed to be the one in the Curia 
of Pompey, at whose base "great Caesar fell." 

784. — thunder-stricken nurse. The bronze image of the wolf 
that nursed Romulus and Remus, legendary founders of Rome. 
It was struck by lightning at the time of the conspiracy of 
Catiline. The statue is in the Museum of the Capitol. 

800. — one vain man. Napoleon. What is the character of 
Napoleon, drawn here for us by Byron? Is Byron a sympathizer 
with Napoleon and his work? Why was Napoleon " vanquished 
by himself"? 

79, 809. — Alcides. Hercules, son of Alceus, took service as 
a woman with Omphale, queen of Lydia, while she wore his lion's 
skin. 

810. — Cleopatra's feet. Caesar pursued Antony to Egypt 



206 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

and there was captivated by the charms of Cleopatra whom he 
restored to the throne of Egypt. 

811. — came — and saw — and conquered. Csesar's laconic 
description of his conquest of Pharnaces II, Iving of Pontus. 

828. — Renew thy rainbow. An allusion to Genesis ix, 13. 

Stanzas XOIII-XOVII. In these stanzas Byron states his 
view regarding the revulsion in feeling after the French Rev- 
olution and the Napoleonic Wars. What is his position? 

81, 866. Saturnalia. Strictly a Roman festival of harvest 
marked by revelry; here scenes like the outbreak of the Reign 
of Terror in the French Revolution. 

Explain the references in stanza XCVI, especially Columbia, 
Pallas, Washington. Pallas Athene sprang fully armed from the 
head of Zeus. What is the contrast between this and the fol- 
lowing stanza? 

82, 883. — stern round tower. See 1. 926, n. The tomb of 
Cecilia Metella. Why is this dwelt upon by Byron? 

904. — Cornelia. The mother of the Gracchi. 
905. — Egypt's graceful queen. Cleopatra. 

83, 917. — Hesperus. The evening star; here the hectic glow 
of the cheek. 

926. — Metella. Wife of Crassus; her tomb, an immense round 
tower, is on the Appian Way four miles from the city gates. 

Stanzas CVI-CXIX. Some of the ruins of Rome, the Pala- 
tine Hill, Columns of Phocas and Trajan, the Capitol, Forum, 
the Fountain of Egeria. 

85, 987. — Titus. The Arch of Titus, in the Via Sacra, com- 
memorating the capture of Jerusalem. 

989. — apostolic statues. The column of Trajan is surmounted 
by St. Peter; that of AureUus by St. Paul. 

86, 991. — Buried in air. Referring to the legend that the 
great emperor Trajan's ashes were contained in the head of the 
spear held by the colossal statue which had originally sur- 
mounted the column. 

1000.— rock of triumph. The Capitol. 

1001 . — steep Tarpeian. The Tarpeian Rock, a steep clifT from 
which criminals were hurled. 

87, 1018. — the latest tribune. Rienzi (1313-1354), a most 
celebrated Italian patriot, the hero of a famous novel by Bulwer 
Lytton (1835). 

1026. — Numa. Numa Pompihus, a legendary king of Rome, 
to whom many of its institutions were ascribed. 



NOTES 207 

1027 — Egeria. A woodland nymph who gave wi.sdom to 
Numa;" their meeting-place was the so-called Giotto of Lgena 
near the Appian Road about two miles from Rome. It con- 
tains a headless statue reported to be that of the nymph. 

1031 — nympholepsy. "May be paraphrased as ecstatic 
vision.' The Greeks feigned that one who had seen a nymph 
was henceforth possessed by her image and beside himself with 
longing for an impossible ideal." (E. H. C.) 

Stanzas CXX-CXXVn. Love— its ideals and its realities. 
Did Byron really have such a gloomy conception of life^ 

91 1129— upas. A tree of the Malayan islands; it yields 
a poisonous sap and was reported to poison those who ap- 

^^ mS^- couch. A term of surgery— to remove a cataract from 

^^IHT— Coliseum. The Colosseum by moonlight has long 
been considered one of the most beautiful sighte in the world 
Goethe wrote in 1787 : " Of the beauty of a walk through Rome 
by moonlight, it is impossible to form a conception. Peculiariy 
beautiful at such a time is the Coliseum." See also Hawthorne s 
Marble Faun, chapters xvi-xvii. rXXXI? 

What does Byron ask of Time, stanzas CXXX and CXXAi 
927ll79.-tWs iron in my soul. Cf. Psalm cv, 18 (Episcopal 

^ta^^tlSS. Furies. The Erinyes of Greek and Furies of 
Roman m^-thology; fearful beings, relentless m pumshment of 

^"n84.— Orestes. Orestes slew his mother for murder and 
adultery and was pursued by the Furies. ,, ^ , . , _„ 

1189 -It is not that I, etc. "It wa^ true that his hopes 
were 'sapped' and 'his name blighted' and it was natural 
if not her^c, first to persuade himself that his suffenngs ex- 
ceeded his fault, that he was more sinned against than smnmg, 
ant so persuad;d, to take care that he should not suffer alone^ 
The general purport of plea and indictment is plam enough but 
the exact interpretation of his phrases, t^e appropriation of^s 
dark sayings, belong rather to the biography of the poet than 
to a commentary on his poems." (E. H. C.) 

94 1221 —Janus. The doubled-faced Roman sun-god. 

95! 1243.-the buzz. "When one gladiator wounded an- 
other, he shouted 'He has it,' 'Hoc habet' or Habet. The 
wounded combatant dropped his weapon and advancmg to 



208 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

the edge of the arena, suppHcated the spectators. If he had 
fought well, the people saved him, if otherwise, or as they hap- 
pened to be inclined, they turned down their thumbs and he 
was slain." (H.) 

1247. — Circus. The circle (L. circus, circle) of the Colosseum. 

1252. — the Gladiator. This famous statue is now usually 
called "The Dying Gaul," and is to be found in the Capitoline 
Museum at Rome. These lines are among the most famous 
that Byron wrote. Why are they so popular? 

96, 1266. — Dacian. Dacia. A province of Rome on the 
north bank of the Danube. 

1279. — from its mass. The chief agent of destruction of the 
Colosseum was the earthquake of 1349 when the whole of the 
western side fell and made hills of travertine which supplied 
Rome with building material for centuries. 

97, 1293. — laurels . . . Caesar. " Suetonius informs us that 
Julius Caesar was particularly gratified by that decree of the 
senate which enabled him to wear a wreath of laurel on all 
occasions. He was anxious not to show that he was the con- 
queror of the world, but to hide that he was bald." (B.) 

1297. — " While stands the Coliseum." "This is quoted [from 
Bede] in The Decline and Foil of the Roman Empire as a 
proof that the Colosseum was entire when seen by the Anglo- 
Saxon pilgrims at the end of the seventh or the beginning of 
the eighth century." 

1307. — Shrine of all saints. Its name as a church was Santa 
Maria ad Martyres. 

98, 1314.— Pantheon. Temple " of all the gods." "The Pan- 
theon had been made a receptacle for the busts of modern great 
or, at least, distinguished men." (B.) It was built at Rome, 
completed in 27 B. C. and consecrated to the divine ancestors 
of the Julian family. 

Stanzas CXLVIII-CLI. The legend of the young mother 
who was thus enabled to save her father, condemned to death 
by starvation. It is associated with the Church of St. Nicholas 
in Carcere. 

99, 1351. — starry fable. From the fable of Heracles; the milk 
of Hera, when she pushed the infant Hercules from her made 
the Milky Way (Galaxy). 

Stanzas CLII-CLXm. These stanzas describe the Monu- 
ment of Hadrian, (now the Castle of St. Angelo), St. Peter's, 
The Laocoon, the Apollo Belvidere. 



NOTES ^00 

100, 1370. — Diana's marvel. The temple of Diana at Ephc- 

8US. 

1371. — martyr's tomb. The rehcs of St. Peter under the 
high altar. 

1373. — wilderness. The plains of the Cayster, Asia Minor. 

1375. — Sophia. The mosque of St. Sophia at Constantinople, 
originally the metropolitaa church of the Greek Christians. 

1381. — Zion. The tem])le of Jerusalem. 

101, 1395.— Holy of Holies. Is this praise of St. Peter's jus- 
tified? 

1404. — the clouds. Michael Angelo in planning the dome 
boasted that he would build the Pantheon in air. 

102, 1432. — the Vatican. The palace of the pope. 

1433. — Laocoon {la ok' o on). The famous group in the 
Vatican, Rome, showing the Trojan priest of Apollo and 
his two young sons enveloped and bitten to death by ser- 
pents. The incident is told by Vergil in the second book of 
the Mneid. 

1441. — Lord of the unerring bow. The statue of the Apollo 
Belvidere is also in the Vatican. The god, after his struggle 
with the python, stands forth proud and disdainful, the left 
hand holding a bow and the right hand falling as of one who 
had just shot an arrow. Why is he called the god of life, poesy, 
and Hght? Does Byron's description help us to see and under- 
stand the statue? 

103, 1459. — Prometheus. The famous myth of Prometheus 
who stole fire from the gods for the sake of mortals. 

1468. — the Pilgrim. Byron returns to Childe Harold, not 
mentioned before in this canto. 

104, 1494. — fardels. Burdens. 

Stanzas CLXVn-CLXXn. These stanzas are a sort of dirge 
on what was felt to be a national calamity, the death of Char- 
lotte Augusta (1817) only daughter of the Prince Regent, who 
afterward became George IV. 

105, 1497. — a nation bleeds, etc. Princess Charlotte died 
in childbirth; the child Uved but a moment. What do you con- 
sider to be the regard in which the Princess was held by the 
Enghsh people? Why is she spoken of as freedom's Iris in 
line 1519? 

107, 1549.— Nemi. The lake near Mt. Albano. "The basin 
of Lake Nemi is the crater of an extinct volcano. Hence 
the comparison to a coiled snake." (E. H. C.) 



210 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

1562. — "Arms and the man." The beginning of the ^Tieid, 
the epic on the war of iEneas and Turnus, prince of Latium. 

1564. — Tnlly. Marcus TuUius Gcero. 

1566. — Sabine farm. Horace's Sabine farm was north-east 
of the Alban Mountains. 

1571. — midland. Mediterranean. 

1574. — Calpe's Rock. Gibraltar. 

108, 1576. — Symplegades. " In the legend of the Argonauts, 
two movable rocky islets at the entrance of the Bosporus into 
the Black Sea." Also called Cyanean, "dark-blue." 

Stanzas CLXXVII-CLXXXIV. Apostrophe to the ocean. Is 
this passage deservedly popular? Is Byron sincere in his pref- 
erence expressed here? What interests Byron in the sea? 

109, 1605. — Man marks, etc. Translated from Mme. de 
Stael's Corinne, I, iv. 

1620. — Can you justify this line? 

1629. — Trafalgar. Scene of Nelson's victory over the French, 
1805. 

Ill, 1672, — sandal-shoon. A pair of sandals. 

— scallop-shell. A shell found on the coast of Palestine 
and worn by pilgrims as evidence of their pilgrimage to the 
Holy Land. 

SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS 

When was this poem written? 

What does Childe in Childe Harold mean? 

Does Byron in the Fourth Canto give his own opinions and 
tell what he has seen and done? 

In what respects is this poem like anything else that he has 
written? 

What passages show his love for Italy, love for a past age, 
desire for freedom? 

From this poem, what remains in your memory — particular 
passages of description, Byron's melancholy, memorable lines? 

What is the moral value of the poem? 

How would you describe Byron's style — his descriptions of 
nature and of buildings, his figures of speech, the impressive- 
ness of the words which he uses? 

What is the form of the stanza? 

What are the three best passages in the poem? 

How would you contrast Childe Harold, The Prisoner of 
Chilian, and Mazeppa in the power of holding your atten- 



NOTES 211 

tion, in making you reflect upon the greatness of the past, in 
making you see a series of exciting incidents, in stirring your 
sympathy? 

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 

The Prisoner of Chillon was written in 1816 very soon after 
Byron had left England for the last time. Not until after he 
wrote the poem was he familiar with the history of the illustri- 
ous prisoner, Bonnivard, " I was not sufficiently aware of the 
history of Bonnivard or I should have endeavored to dignify 
the subject by an attempt to celebrate his courage and his 
\drtues." The site of the dungeon, which he saw on a visit to 
Chillon, was enough to fire the imagination of a revolutionary 
poet like Byron to make the famous castle a setting for the 
poem. 

Bonnivard was born in 1496; he was prior of St. Victor, near 
Geneva; he supported the cause of the republic of Geneva against 
the Duke of Savoy and became the martyr of his country and 
of liberty. 

112, 4. — as men's have grown. " Ludovico Sforza and others. 
The same is asserted of Marie Antoinette, the wife of Louis the 
Sixteenth, although not quite in so short a period. Grief is 
said to have the same effect; to such and not to fear, this change 
in hers w^as to be attributed." (B.) 

113, 17. — We were seven. The Bonnivard of history had 
but two brothers. 

27. — Gothic mould. The style of architecture with pointed 
arches, prevalent in Europe in the 13th to 16th centuries. 

28. — Chillon. "The Chateau de Chillon is situated between 
Clarens and Villeneuve which last is at one extremity of the 
Lake of Geneva (Lake Leman). On its left are the entrances 
of the Rhone, and opposite are the heights of Meillerie and the 
range of the Alps above Bouveret and St. Guigo. 

"Near it on a hill behind, is a torrent; below it, washing its 
walls, the lake has been fathomed to the depth of eight hundred 
feet; within it are a range of dungeons in which the early re- 
formers, and subsequently prisoners of state, were confined. 
Across one of the vaults is a beam, black with age, on which 
we were informed that the condemned were formerly executed. 
In the cells are seven pillars, or rather eight, one being half 
merged in the walls; in some of these are the rings for the fetters 



212 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

and the fettered. In the pavement, the steps of Bonnivard 
have left their traces. He was confined here several years. 
. . . The chateau is large and seen along the lake for a great 
distance. The walls are white." (B.) 

114, 63. — dreary tone. We are told in Milner's Gallenj of 
Geography that the voices of Arctic explorers take on a sepul- 
chral tone after long residence in those regions. 

Stanza IX. Perhaps the best stanza in the poem. In what 
consists Byron's power of language? 

Stanza X. This offers a relief after stanza IX. 

124, 336. — the blue Rhone. The Rhone does not become 
"blue" until it leaves the lake at Geneva. 

339-341. — the white-walled distant town. Villeneuve. "Be- 
tween the entrances of the Rhone and Villeneuve, not far from 
Chillon, is a very small island, the only one I could perceive, 
in my voyage around and over the lake within its circumference. 
It contains a few trees (I think not above three) and from its 
singleness and diminutive size has a peculiar effect upon the 
view." (B.) 

SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS 

Explain the following words: yore (66), sooth (100), boon 
(152), corse (153), wist (237). 

Do you find alliteration in this poem? Where? 

Why is this poem sometimes called a fable? 

How may this poem be regarded as a plea for freedom and 
an indictment against tyranny? 

Was it possible for the incidents of this poem to happen? 

Does the story continue in interest through its fourteen 
stanzas? Is this true of the last three stanzas? 

Is there special appropriateness in the mention of the eagle 
(353), the spider (381), the mice (383)? 

Why do you like The Prisoner of Chillon? 

MAZEPPA 

Of the time of Byron's writing Mazeppa we are not positive. 
We have his letter of the 24th of September, 1818, in which he 
says the poem was still to finish and we know that it was pub- 
lished June 28, 1819. 

Mazeppa is a legend of the Ukraine. The Ukraine is a region 
in Russia lying chiefly in the valley of the middle Dnieper. It 



NOTES 2i:i 

was for a lonp; timo the object of contention between Polan.l 
and Russia. For a while it was governed by Poland, then b\ 
Russia, tlieir ruler being selected by the court at Moscow. 
Ivan Mazeppa (1044-1709) was chosen by Russia to fill thai 
I)osition in 1707, and for a time enjoyed the favor of Peter the 
Cireat, who gave him the title of Prince of Ukraine. The fa- 
mous ride described by Byron occurred before this. Having 
been detected in an intrigue with a Polish lady of rank,.he was, 
by order of her husband, bound naked on the back of a wild 
horse and driven out from the Ukraine. 

Mazeppa committed suicide by taking poison shortly after 
the battle of Pultova, that is, soon after the story that Byron 
represents him as telling. The poem represents the incidents 
following the battle of Pultowa or Poltova on the Vorskia 
River, July 8, 1709. The Russians under Peter the GVeat 
defeated and routed the Swedes under Charles XII. This 
battle marks the decUne of the power of the Swedes and the 
rise of Russia. 

A few days before the battle King Charles had been riding 
at some distance from the camp when a bullet struck him and 
penetrated his foot. Thus it was necessary for him to be 
placed on a litter before the lines of his army. In the fight 
the litter was smashed by a cannon-ball and was replaced by a 
rudely improvised bed of crossed poles, which the soldiers car- 
ried when the Swedes were forced to flee. 

The second stanza of the poem describes the king as being 
laid at the foot of the tree and his companions, sad and dis- 
heartened, sitting together and trying to find some common 
solace in their time of distress. The king, generous, patient, 
and smiling through all, praises the courage, strength, and deeds 
of Mazeppa and inquires where he learned to ride so well. Be- 
ing urged, Mazeppa tracks "his seventy years of memory 
back," and picks out the following story from his twentieth 
spring. Accordingly, the remainder of the poem presents the 
thrilling ride of Mazeppa, and closes abruptly with the discovery 
that the king has fallen asleep. 

126, 9. — until a day. The retreat of Napoleon from Russia 
a little more than one hundred years later, in 1812. There 
are many references in Byron's poetry to Napoleon and his 
stirring times. 

23. — Gieta. An oflScer in the Swedish army. 

128, 56.— Hetman. A Cossack chief. 



214 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

71. — Tartar-like. Why does Byron describe so minutely 
Mazeppa's careful attention to his horse? 

82. — powder filled the pan. In old guns or pistols, the hollow 
part of the flintlock in which the priming was placed. 

129, 103. — Alexander. The famous king of Macedon; Buceph- 
alus was his favorite horse. 

105. — Scythia. A region which is now southern Russia and 
Roumania, inhabited by the Scythians, notorious for their inva- 
sions and cruel devastations. 

106. — pricking. Riding. "A gentle knight was pricking on 
the plain," — Spenser, F eerie Queene, I, i. 

116. — Borysthenes. The Greek name for the Dnieper, a river 
in Russia flowing into the Black Sea. 

130, 128.— Casimir was king. John Casimir (1609-1672), 
King of Poland. On account of his fairness in taking sides 
with the Cossacks against his own people he earned the charac- 
ter of being an unwarlike and effeminate prince. 

Why is he here called "the Polish Solomon?" 
135. — Warsaw's diet. Warsaw was the capital of Poland; 
diet, the name of the national assembly. 

131, 154. — Thyrsis. A shepherd in the idyls of Theocritus, 
the Sicilian poet. It came to be a conamon name for any shep- 
herd poet. 

155. — Palatine. A Count Palatine, or count of a border 
county. {Pal-, pale.) 

157. — Rich as a salt. " This comparison of a ' salt mine ' may, 
perhaps, be permitted to a Pole, as the wealth of the country 
consists greatly in the salt mines." (B.) 

132, 203. — Methinks it glides. Do you see the beauty of 
Theresa? Or is it romantic love that Byron describes? 

181-357. — Stanzas V-Vin. Does anything in these stanzas 
make you suspect that the author is the same man who wrote 
The Prisoner of Chillon ? 

136, 319-320. — devil. Is this a good rhyme — devil: civil? 
How was devil sometimes pronounced? 

137, 349. — 'scutcheon. Escutcheon; the surface on which 
armorial bearings are displayed. 

354. — 'Sdeath. An oath, a contraction of God's death, very 
common in Shakespeare's day; cf. 'sblood, zounds (God's 
wounds), 'snails. 

139, 394. — castle gate. The romantic poems of Spenser, 
Scott, and Byron are full of long descriptions of the castles 



Vi 



NOTES 215 

of feudal times. Can you recall some one from vScott's 
poetry? 

419-422. — There never yet, etc. The thought of these lines 
is the theme of some of the greatest, dramas and novels. 

140, 437. — Spahi. A Turkish cavalryman. 

439. — The sky, etc. Much of the impression made by nature 
is due to the mood of the observer. IIow is that brought out 
here? 

141, 464-520. — Stanza XII. Wliat of this description do you 
best remember? Is there an appropriateness in describing the 
wolves toward the end of the stanza? See Browning's poem, 
Ivan Ivanovitch. 

142, 507. — courser. Mazeppa calls his horse a courser (507), 
wild horse (582), elsewhere, steed (603), brute (606), wretch 
(710). Is there appropriateness in these different names? 

145ff, 601-652. — Stanzas XV-XVI. How does the poet in 
these stanzas most effectively picture the fatigue and exhaus- 
tion of the horse? 

146, 619. — ignis-fatuus. Will-o'-the-wisp. 

147flE, 653-762. Stanza XVII. How do the descriptions in 
Tlie Ancie7it Mariner compare with these? 

658. — Nor dint of hoof. Would a man in such a state note 
such details as the lack of the hoof-print, the luxuriant soil, 
not a sound of insect or bird, and all the details of the wild 
horses? 

664. — werst. More commonly written verst, Russian meas- 
urement of length, about three thousand feet. 

152, 796-839. — Stanza XIX. Why is there such a pleasing 
contrast in the description of this stanza as compared with the 
preceding stanza? 

154, 859. — As I shall yield when safely there. "By noon 
the battle was over. . . . The retreat began toward evening. 
. . . The King, Mazeppa, and about one thousand men crossed 
the Dnieper. . . . The King, with the Russian cavalry in hot 
pursuit, rode as fast as he could to the Bug, where half his 
escort was captured and he barely escaped. Thence he went 
to Bender, on the Dniester, and for five years remained the 
guest of Turkey." — Peter the Great, by Eugene Schuyler. 

SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS 

How long did the ride last? 

What part of the ride do you like best? 



216 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 

What feelings of the rider are described? 
What are some of the most suggestive words? 
Why does Byron have King Charles go to sleep before the 
end of the story? 

DON JUAN 

Byron began the first canto of Don Juan (pronounced by 
Byron to rime with ruin, but in Spanish hwdn') in the autumn 
of 1818. The last work which he ever did was the part of the 
seventeenth canto which he wrote in 1823. 

The name of this poem was taken from Don Juan, according 
to Spanish tradition, a profligate nobleman of Seville, '' a Titan 
of embodied evil, the likeness of sin made flesh." All else is 
original with Byron. As the poet has conceived him, he is a 
hero of rank and fortune, wit and talent, acquired knowledge 
and liberal accomphshments, together with beauty of person, 
vigorous health and natural passion. Byron's characterization 
passes lightly from the humorous to the satiric, from the play- 
ful to the serious, now dignified, now well-nigh vulgar. 

According to Mr. E. H. Coleridge, the author's purpose was 
"not only to celebrate, but by the white light of truth to repre- 
sent and exhibit the great things of the world. Love and War 
and Death by sea and land, and man, half angel, half demon, 
the comedy of his fortunes and the tragedy of his passions and 
his fate." 

Don JuAin has won great praise from many worthy critics. 
Scott said that its author " has embraced every topic of human 
life and sounded every string of the divine harp from its slightest 
to its most powerful and heart-astounding tones " ; Goethe called 
it "a work of boundless genius"; Shelley wrote, "this poem 
carries with it at once the stamp of originality and defiance of 
imitation. Nothing has ever been written Hke it in English." 

Childe Harold, in its four cantos, consists of three distinct 
poems descriptive of three successive journeys into foreign 
lands; in Don Juan, the story is continuous, presenting con- 
sistently the personality of a hero. 

In this volume of selections from Byron's poems, we have 
printed the shipwreck which forms the greater part of the sec- 
ond canto. The following note by Moore is interesting in con- 
nection with the origin of the shipwreck story: "In 1799, while 
Lord Byron was the pupil of Dr. Glennie at Dulwich, among the 
books that lay accessible to the boys was a pamphlet, entitled 



NOTES 217 

Narralivc of the Shipwreck of tfie. Juno on the Coast of Arrocon 
in tlie Year 1795. The pamphlet attracted but Httlc public 
attention; but among the young students of Dulwich Grove, 
it was a favorite study, and the impressions which it left on the 
retentive mind of Byron may have had some share, perhaps, in 
suggesting that curious research through all the various ac- 
counts of shipwrecks upon record by which he prepared himself 
to depict with such power a scene of the same description in 
Don J2ian." 

In a letter to his friend, Murray, the publisher, he wrote, 
"with regard to the charges about the shipwreck, I think that . 
I told you and Mr. Hobhouse years ago that there was not a 
circumstance of it not taken from fact; not, indeed, from any 
single shipwreck but all from actual facts of different wrecks." 
(August 23, 1^21.) Byron's grandfather was wrecked off the 
Straits of Magellan and left an account of which these verses 
have echoes. 

The following is a brief synopsis of the second canto: 

Stanzas I-XXV. After a disgraceful act committed by Juan, 
his mother Inez sends him to Cadiz where, with three servants 
and a tutor Pedrillo, he embarks for England, reluctantly leav- 
ing his native country Spain and his beloved Julia. 

Stanzas XXVI-CXI describe the storm and shipwreck (we 
have omitted from our text stanzas 73-83 which portray with 
terrible vividness the killing and eating of the tutor, Pedrillo.) 

Stanzas CXII-CCXVI. — The recovery of Juan, discovered by 
a girl and her attendant. The former named Haidee was the 
daughter of an old Greek pirate and the greatest heiress of 
the Eastern Isles. Her attendance upon Juan results in pas- 
sionate love between the two. 

SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS 

Is Byron especially fond of the sea? 

Refer to passages which show his power in describing the sea. 

What is his special ability, as shown in the shipwreck passage? 

"WTiat is the impression upon the reader made by the narra- 
tive or any part of it? 

Are his words suggestive of color, sound, beauty? 

Does this narrative remind one of Coleridge's Ancient Mari- 
ner .? Cf stanzas 84, 94, 102. 

Do you think Byron is as effective in suggesting mystery as 
Coleridge was? 



218 BYRON'S SELECT POEMS 



THE ISLES OF GREECE 

The sixteen stanzas so well known under this title are repre- 
sented as being sung by a minstrel poet at a banquet. They 
appear in the third canto of Don Juan, which continues from 
canto second the experiences of Juan and Haidee during 
the absence of her father, the banquet at which the minstrel 
sings and the father returns and discovers his daughter ap- 
parently very happy over her father's long absence. 

180, 2. — Sappho. The famous poetess of ancient Greece. 
4. — Delos. Supposed to be the birthplace of Apollo. 

— Phoebus. A common name for Apollo. 

7. — The Scian muse and the Teian muse. The former. Homer, 
because he was by some supposed to have been born at Scio; 
the latter, Anacreon, born at Teos. 

12. — "Islands of the Blest." The Fortunate Islands, now sup- 
posed to refer to the Cape Verde Islands, or the Canaries. 

13. — Marathon. The scene of the Persian defeat, by the 
Athenians under Miltiades, 490 B. C. The references to Xerxes 
and Thermopylse continue the glorious memories of ancient 
Greek history. 

181, 20. — Salamis. In 480 B, C. Xerxes invaded Greece, 
gained the pass of Thermopylae defended by Leonidas, but was 
defeated ofif the island of Salamis, by the Athenian fleet under 
Themistocles. 

182, 50. — Samian wine. Famous wine from the island of 
Samos off the coast of Asia Minor. 

52. — Scio. An island off the coast of Asia Minor; in classic 
Greek times called Chios. 

54. — Bacchanal. Celebrant of the festival of Bacchus, god 
of wine. 

55. — Pyrrhic dance. An ancient Greek dance practiced by 
the soldiers while armed; it was accompanied by the flute. 

59. — Cadmus. According to tradition, the founder of Thebes 
and the inventor of the alphabet. 

63. — Anacreon. Greek lyrical poet of love. 

64. — Poly crates. Ruler of Samos from about 536 to 522; 
a patron of literature and art. 

183, 67. — Chersonese. Often mentioned in ancient literature, 
the land lying along the European side of the Hellespont. 

74. — Suli's rock. A strong Turkish fortress, in Epirus. 
— Parga. A town and fortress of Turkey, in Epirus. 



NOTES 219 

77. — Doric. Thn Dorians wore a branch of flic (ircok race 
settled in Arfz;()s. Sparta, and Corinth. 

78. — Heracleidan. Dt'sccndod from Heracles (Hercules). 

71). Franks. Tlie I'rencli. 

184, 91. — Sunium. The beautiful ti-mple-crowned promon- 
tory between the /Egean and the Gulf of JCgina. 

94. — swan-like. Tlie Greek myth is that the swan sings while 
dyintj. 



INDEX TO THE NOTES 



Accademia della Crusca, 201 
Acroceraunian, the, 204 
Address Spoken at the Opening of 

Drurij-Lane Theatre, 188 
^neid, 205 
^tna, 204 
Alcides, 205 
Alexander, 214 
Alfieri, 197. 203 
All Is Vanity, 192 
Anacreon, 218 
Anchises, 203 
Ancient Mariner, The, 215 
Angelo, Michael, 203, 209 
Antoinette, Marie, 211 
Apollo, 218 
apostolic statues, 206 
Archimedes, 205 
Ariosto, 195, 201, 202 
"Arms and the man," 210 
Arqua, 201 
Ashur, 194 
Askalon, 185 
Assyrian, The, 194 
Athens' armies, 200 
Athos, 204 
Atlas, 204 

Bacchanal, 218 

Banquo, 188 

Barbarossa, Frederick, 199 

Bards of Hell and Chivalry, 202 

Boccaccio, 194, 201, 203 

Boileau, 201 

Boonivard, 211 

Borysthenes, 214 

Braemar, 187 

Brenta, 201 

Bridge of Sighs, The. 198 

Brinsley, 188 

Browning, 201, 215 

Brutus, 205 

Bucentaur, The, 199 

Bucephalus, 214 

buried in air, 206 

buzz, 207 

By the Rivers of Babylon, etc., 193 

by-word, 200 

Cadmus, 218 
Csesar, Juliu.s, 205, 208 
Calpe's Rock, 210 
Calypso's Isles, 187 



"came and saw and conquered," 206 

Candia, 200 

Canova, 203 

Capitol. The, 205. 206 

Casimir, 214 

castle-gate. 214 

cell, 201 

Charlotte, Princess. 209 

Chersonese, 218 

Childe Harold, 195, 216 

Chillon, 211 

Chimari, 20-1 

choral memory, 200 

Christian, the, 205 

Cicero, 202, 210 

Circus, 208 

Cleopatra, 205, 206 

Clitumnus, 203 

clouds. 209 

Coleridge, E. H., 194. 216 

Coliseum, 207. 208 

Columbia. 206 

Cornelia, 206 

couch, 207 

creaking lyre, 202 

Cressy, 185 

Cromwell, 205 

Cruscan quire, 201 

Culloden, 187 

Cybele, 198 

cypress, 204 

Dacian, 208 

Dandolo, 200 

Dante, 201, 202, 203 

Dardan Shepherd, 202 

day of double victory, 205 

Decameron, The, 203 

Delos, 218 

Denis, St., 199 

Destruction of Sennacherib, The, 193 

devil, 214 

Diana's marvel, 209 

Dian's crest, 201 

dint of hoof, 215 

disgust, 203 

Divine Comedy, The, 203 

dogeless, 199 

Don Juan, 216, 218 

Doria's menace, 200 

Doric, 219 

dread statue, 205 

dreary tone, 212 

221 



222 



INDEX TO THE NOTES 



drilled dull lesson. 204 
Duke of Savoy, 211 

eagles, 205 

Egeria, 207 

Egypt's graceful queen, 206 

Emperor sued, 199 

Este, 201 

Etrurian Athens, 202 

Etruscan three, 203 

Eureka, 205 

Euripides, 200 

factions, 203 
fardels, 209 
Ferrara, 201 
fighting, Byron's, 186 
Filicaja, 202 
Florence, 187 
Fortune's wheel, 205 
Franks, 219 
Friuli's mountains, 201 
Furies, 207 

Galileo, 203 

Garrick, David, 186 

Gazelle, the Wild, 189 

George, St., 199 

Gerusalemme Liberata, 198, 199 

Ghost-Seer, The, 200 

Gieta, 213 

Gladiator, The, 208 

Glennie, Dr., 216 

Goddess, The, 202 

Goethe, 216 

Goldsmith's Citizen of the World, 196 

Goth, the, 205 

Gothic mould, 211 

Guelph and Ghibellines, 203 

Hannibal, 203 

Harp the Monarch Minstrel Swept, 

The, 189 
Harrow, 185 

Hawthorne's Marble Faun, 207 
Hebrew Melodies, 188 
Heracleidan, 219 
Hercules, 205, 219 
Herod's Lament for Mariamne, 193 
Hesperus, 206 
Hetman, 213 

Hobhouse, John. 195, 198, 217 
Holy of Holies, 209 
Homer, 218 
Horace, 204, 210 
Horistan, 185 

Ida, 186, 204 
ignis fatuus, 215 
Ill-starred, 186 
Iris of the West, 201 
iron in my soul, 207 



/ Saw Thee Weep, 101 
Islands of the Blest, 218 
Isles of Greece, The, 218 
Italia, 202 

Janus, 207 

Jephtha's Daughter, 190 

Jungfrau, 204 

King of Men, the, 189 

Laohin y Gair, 186 

Laocoon, 209 

laurels, 208 

lauwine, 200, 203 

Lepanto, 200 

Livy, 205 

Long Parliament, 205 

Lord of the unerring bow, 209 

lyric, Roman, the, 204 

Lytton, Bulwer, 206 

Macchiavelli, 203 

Marathon, 218 

Mark, St , 199 

Marston, 185 

Martyr's tomb, 209 

Mazeppa, 212, 215 

Megara, 202 

Menander, 188 

Merchant of Venice, 200 

Metella, 206 

midland, 210 

milk-white steer, 203 

Milman's History of the Jews, 193 

Milner's Gallery of Geography, 212 

Miltiades. 218 

Mont Blanc, 204 

Moore, 216 

Mossop, Henry, 186 

Murray, 199, 217 

My Soul is Dark, 191 

Mysteries of Udolpho, 200 

Napoleon. 205, 213 

Narrative of the Shipwreck of the 

Juno, etc., 217 
nation bleeds, i209 
Nelson, 210 
Nemi, 209 
Newstead, 185 
Nicholas, St., 208 
Niobe, 204 
Numa, 206 
nympholepsy, 207 

Ocean queen, 200 

Oh/ Mihi, etc., 186 

Oh! Snatched away in Beauty's 

Bloom, 190 
Oh, Weep for Those, 190 
Olympus, 204 
On Jordan's Banks, 190 



INDEX TO THE NOTES 



'2^2'^ 



On the Day of the Destruction of Jeru- 
unlem 6;/ Titus. 193 

On this Day I complete my Thirty- 
sixth Year, 194 

Orestes, 207 

Ossian, 1H5 

Othello. 200 

Ottoinite. 200 

Otway, 199, 200 

Palatine. 214 

Pallas, 206 

Pantaleon, St.. 200 

Pantheon, 208 

I'arga, 218 

Parnassus, 201 

Patrick, St.. 199 

Paul, St., 206 

Paul's Cathedral. St., 199 

Peter. St., 206 

Petrarch. 201. 203 

Phlegethon. 203 

Phabus, 218 

Pierre, 199 

Pilgrim, the. 209 

Pitti Gallery. 203 

plaid. 186 

Polycrates. 218 

Ponipey. 205 

Pope, 202 

powder filled the pan. 214 

Prayer of Nature, 187 

pricking, 214 

Prisoner of Chilian, The, 211 

Prometheus, 194 

Prometheus. 209 

Pultowa, 213 

pyramid, 203 

Pyrrhic dance, 218 

Radcliffe. Anne. 200 
raise a language. 201 
red shadow, 188 
renew thy rainbow, 206 
Revolution. French, 206 
Rhaptian hill, the. 201 
Rhone, blue, 212 
Rialto, the, 199 
rich as a salt mine, 214 
Rienzi. 206 
rock of triumph. 206 
Roman friend, 202 
Iloscius. 188 
Rupert, Prince, 185 

Sabine farm. 210 
Salamis, 218 
Samian wine. 218 
sandal-shoon. 210 
Sanguinetto. 203 
Santa Croce, 203 
Sappho. 218 
Satraps. 192 



Saturnalia. 206 

Saul. 191 

acallop-shell. 210 

sceptred cities, 199 

Schiller. 200 

Schuyler. Eugenp, Peter theCreat, 215 

Scian muse and the Teian muse, the, 
218 

Scio. 218 

Scipio's tomb, 204 

Scott. 214 

scutcheon. 214 

Scythia. 214 

'sdeath, 214 

Sforza. Ludovico. 211 

Shake-^^peare. 199, 200, 214 

Shelley. 216 

She Walks in Beauty, 189 

shrine of all saints, 208 

Siddons. 188 

Siroc. 187 

Song of Saul, 191 

Sophia. 209 

Soracte, 204 

Southern Scott. 202 

Spahi. 215 

Spartan's epitaph. 199 

Spenser. Faerie Queene, 214 

Spirit Passed before me, yl, 194 

Stael. Madame de, Corinne, 210 

Stanzas composed during a Thunder- 
storm, 187 

starry fable, 208 

steeds of bra.ss, 200 

stem round tower, 206 

strange eyes. 199 

Suggestive Questions, 210, 212, 215- 
216, 217 

Suli's rock. 218 

Sunium. 219 

Swabian, the. 199 

swan-like. 219 

swept off senates, 205 

Sylla. 205 

Symplegades. 210 

Synopsis of second canto of Don 
Juan, 217 

tannen. 201 

Tarpeian, the steep, 206 

Tartar-like, 214 

Tasso. 198. 201, 202 

Temple, the. 199 

Theocritus, 214 

Thrasimene, 203 

thunder-stricken nurse. 205 

Thy Days are Done, 191 

Thyrsis, 214 

Titus, 206 

token. 201 

To Thomas Moore, 194 

Trafalgar. 210 

Trajan, 206 



224 



INDEX TO THE NOTES 



Tribune, the latest, 206 
Trojan's eye, 204 
Tully, 205, 210 
Tuscan father, 202 
Tyre, 200 

Uffizi Gallery, the, 202, 203 
Ukraine, 212, 213 
upas, 207 

Vatican, the, 209 

Velino, 203 

Venice Preserved, 199 

Venus de Medici, 202 

Virgil's lay, 205 

Vision of Belshazzar, 192 



Warsaw's diet, 214 

Washington, 206 

Were Thy Bosom as False, 193 

werst, 215 

Westminster Abbey, 199. 203 

When Coldness Wraps, 192 

white-walled distant town, 212 

wilderness, 209 

wingfed Lion, 198 



Xerxes, 218 



Zanga, Alonzo, 186 
Zion, 209 



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